Stages of Grief
by Ducks - The Anti-Joss
Summary: Feeling Angel's Pain. SPOILERS FOR Buffy5/Angel 2 FINALES!
1. Default Chapter

**** BIG BIG BIG BIG TISSUE WARNING. I cried so much, I had to rewrite it four  
times. *sigh* It's not my best work, but... I needed the catharsis. Thanks to my  
betas for indulging me. *SMOOCH*****  
  
TITLE: Stage I: Denial  
SERIES: "Stages of Grief" (1/5)  
AUTHOR: Ducks, Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow  
EMAIL: Ducks@angelmailbox.com (DAMN THE WB!!!! *growl*)  
DISCLAIMER: Yeah. Like I'd give my *SELF* a hysterical nervous breakdown if they were  
mine. Pfft. They belong to people who don't really give much of a hoot about them.  
Their handlers and owners care not that the fans need to grieve with their beloved  
characters. *I* do. Unfortunately, I have to put them back in their lonely,  
disconnected universe when I'm done, and nobody gives me a red cent for caring about  
the way their histories are inexorably tied together. *sniff* To make a long story  
less long (We miss you, Lindsey!), not mine, don't sue.  
PAIRING: B/A  
TIMELINE: Post Season 5/2 Finales  
SPOILERS: Consider the entire canon fair game, especially BtVS5/AtS2, and  
ESPECIALLY-especially "The Gift" and "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb"  
SYNOPSIS: Following Angel and some friends through Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.  
The obligatory Buffy Death Fic.  
DISTRIBUTION: Send naked Angels and big, supportive hugs, and it's yours.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The reported end of crossovers leaves Angel's grief as possibly the  
biggest plothole in television history. Not to mention the central mythology of both  
series and characters that is the B/A relationship -- without that foundation stone,  
as far as I'm concerned, much of the magick is simply gone. Poo on JossCo. *pout*  
  
This story was inspired by my own experiences in response to the season finales. And  
yes, I know how twisted grieving for fictional characters is. ;) This is definitely  
not my best work... but I had to write it. Angel made me. He says all this happy,  
grinny, jokey stuff the writers are dishing out is crap. *g* No, I swear, he did!  
FEEDBACK: Desperately needed. Ease my pain. *sigh*  
RATING: PG-13  
CONTENT: MAJOR angst. References to character death. Did I mention the angst?  
DEDICATION: To my Devoted Minion Dru, for demanding that I "FIX IT!". To V, for  
feeling my pain. To Anja, who begged for gratuitous over-corpse wailing. And to my  
beloved Slashers, some of whom have come down with a sudden B/A bug. ;)  
  
"Stages of Grief" 1/5  
**Stage I: Denial**  
"At first, survivors may deny the loss has taken place, and often experience a  
lingering numbness, shock, or lack of emotional sensation. We may withdraw from our  
usual social contacts, and refuse help or comfort. This stage may last a few moments  
or longer." - From the "Arnot Ogden Medical Center's Guide to Dealing With Grief"  
  
~~~~~  
"There's no place like... Willow?"  
"What's..."  
Willow rose slowly to her feet, grief plain in her eyes... in the pale, drawn line of  
her features. In a split second, Angel knew.  
"It's Buffy."  
~~~~~  
  
I remember the sensation of being sucked into Acathla's vortex with crystal clarity.  
It was like being vacuum sealed... all the air rushing away, the very cohesiveness of  
reality torn asunder, the solidity of my body broken, collapsing in on itself,  
shrinking into a pinpoint of pain... darkness... and finally, blinking into nothing.  
And when next I had form again, I found myself in Hell, where everything was agony.  
Each moment worse than the one before. An entire reality built of endless torment and  
torture, and my first coherent thought was the certainty that this was my eternity...  
and it was far less than I deserved.  
  
This moment was worse.  
  
I've experienced a lot of mood swings in my two and a half centuries, but never had I  
plummeted from pure, simple, buoyant joy to crushing despair as quickly and utterly  
as I did when my friends and I returned from Pylea to find Willow waiting.  
  
No... that's not true. It happened once before, the night Buffy and I made love for  
the first time. When I fell asleep in her arms, cocooned by love... hope... dreams of  
the future... things I hadn't had since the cold, damp night of my mortal death... if  
I'd ever had them at all. When I woke to searing pain and stumbled blindly into the  
night... realized what was happening, and what would inevitably happen next... I felt  
it then. My first plunge into Hell.  
  
In the matter of a heartbeat, looking into the big brown eyes of the dearest friend  
of my life's only love, I felt it. The moment that I said the words ((It's Buffy.)),  
I knew. My entire reality disintegrated and I was once again sucked into a vortex of  
disbelief... ultimate pain... and finally, nothingness. Hell again.  
  
Buffy was dead. I could read it in Willow's eyes. The one thing in my entire  
existence that had truly been good was gone.  
  
I froze there on the stairs, stunned. I couldn't move or speak, I forgot to breathe  
and just stood, gaping at her.  
  
Cordelia broke the heavy silence first, taking a step forward as realization stole on  
her. "Oh... No. It can't be. Not Buffy," she moaned. I watched as she stumbled across  
the room in what seemed like slow motion, pulling Willow into a crushing embrace and  
bursting into very un-Cordelia-like tears.  
  
Willow's eyes never left mine, even as her arms wrapped around Cordy. The Witch  
looked so haggard... so worn and old. And I remembered... she was little more than a  
child. A child who had seen far too much simply because she cared about one  
incredible woman. An unfair price to pay for such pure love...  
  
"Dear God," Wesley mumbled, taking a step closer to me. I could feel his body heat  
pounding against my skin... scent his shock and sudden sadness, but he mercifully  
didn't try to touch me. "How? What happened?"  
  
"Who's Buffy?" I heard Fred whisper.  
  
And Gunn's soft reply. "It's uh... kinda a long story. Her and Angel used to... They  
were..." He left it at that, and Fred didn't push.  
  
I don't remember walking to the couch or sitting down. Actually, there's not a lot  
that I remember about those first few moments, besides feeling... nothing. I  
wondered... shouldn't I be crying? Shouldn't I curse the Gods for taking her when she  
had already given so much? How could she just not... be, anymore?  
  
Maybe I should have wept... but I didn't. I was calm... and colder than I ever  
remembered being. I sat beside Willow and listened to her spin the tale of that final  
battle... Buffy's nobility and bravery in the face of her death... how she sacrificed  
herself to save her sister, and ultimately, the world. She spared the more painful  
minutiae, of course, but it didn't matter. My imagination created a perfectly  
detailed picture of every one of Buffy's last moments. The agony on her sweet face...  
her body lying broken and bleeding on the ground, the beautiful light in her eyes  
snuffed out forever... her soft, golden skin gone grey with the dull pallor of  
death...  
  
Death. Buffy was dead. I thought the words, but they had no meaning. No possible tie  
to my reality.  
  
"I thought I should... I wanted to come and tell you in person," Willow concluded  
gently, and for the first time, I realized that she was holding my hands. I stared  
down at them... her small fingers fit around my larger ones much the way Buffy's  
had... the living heat of her skin was much the same, but somehow... not. She  
squeezed hard, almost desperately, and I realized that she wasn't just touching, she  
was holding. Holding on. Holding on to me.  
  
I wanted to tell her not to, because I wasn't sure if I was solid enough to bear even  
her small weight anymore.  
  
Cordelia sat nearby, crying in the safe circle of Gunn's arms. Wesley was on the  
phone talking... to Giles, maybe? Poor Fred just sat looking confused and lost.  
  
Lost. Everything was lost. Everything I ever dreamed of and hoped for, crushed. My  
life's only light, gone.  
  
Buffy. Dead. No warm, soft breath. No strong, soothing heartbeat. No more Buffy. It  
echoed on and on like a morbid mantra in my head.  
  
I nodded absently. "Yes. Thank you. I appreciate that."  
  
Willow's eyes flooded and she squeezed even harder. "I know how much you loved her.  
We all did. I'm so sorry, Angel. I'm sorry I couldn't... save her."  
  
Buffy cold, her heroine's heart stilled forever, her strong, beautiful body buried  
under mounds of cold soil...all those inches of skin I'd kissed breaking down to  
their component parts... seeping away into the earth. Her smile would never again  
bring grace to my life. I would never feel her touch or hear her voice, and that  
particular way she said my name... with a sort of wonder... with a sweetness that,  
once upon a time, never failed to make my dead heart leap.  
  
"She loved you too," my love's best friend went on, tears choking her voice, "She  
never stopped. She never said it... but we all knew."  
  
Again, I felt my head bobbing in affirmation... I heard her words, and yet... I felt  
as though I was standing outside all of this, looking in. I got up. It was just a  
dream. A nightmare. It had to be, right? All I had to do was keep moving until the  
sunset woke me.  
  
"Would anyone like some tea?"  
  
Everyone stared at me as though I'd begun speaking a foreign language. What were they  
waiting for? For me to fall to my knees and keen like the mourning women of my mother  
country? To scream and cry and rage at the Powers for stealing the sunlight from me  
yet again? Why would I? None of this was real.  
  
I didn't wait for an answer. My body moved of its own accord, down the hallway to the  
kitchen. The motions were automatic...open the cupboard... take down the kettle...  
turn the burner on... fill the pot with water... set it on the burner.  
  
It was a new kettle... red, at Cordelia's insistence. To offset my perpetual black,  
she said. I tried to tell her... if she needed color, could she pick another than  
blood red? She said it wasn't blood red, it was crimson. The blue one that Buffy and  
I drank from on the Day That Wasn't was lost when my old apartment exploded.  
  
I stared as the foreign kettle heated... then whistled with steam. I gave up my  
humanity so that she could live. I sacrificed both of our happiness... ripped both  
our hearts out... for what?  
  
For her to do exactly this, I imagined. So she might fulfill her destiny... save the  
world, then die like every other Slayer had died.  
  
I halted that line of thought very quickly, and stood staring at the bags of tea  
lined up like paper soldiers in the cupboard: morning blend; Earl Grey; Lemon Zinger;  
chamomile; peppermint. Buffy always liked peppermint. She used to say that tea was a  
horrible British disease she caught from Giles. She'd put two tablespoons of sugar in  
her cup before she poured, and I would tease her that she might save herself some  
trouble and just eat the sugar straight from the bowl. She would roll her eyes,  
wrinkle up her nose, and inform me that I should shut up, since I couldn't taste it,  
and therefore had no idea what I was talking about.  
  
She was right, of course... but I could smell it on her, her usual sunshine and  
vanilla scent touched with the tang of the mint, and when we kissed, I could feel the  
sticky sugar on her tongue, and it made me remember what sweet tasted like. I could  
have tasted the world from her all night...  
  
I picked up the bag of peppermint and stared at it, wondering if some cosmic answer  
might be found on the brightly colored label, and found suddenly that I didn't  
remember what I should be doing with it. I lost, in that moment, the simple ability  
to make tea.  
  
Buffy. Was. Dead. Deceased. No longer among the living. Passed away. Kicked the  
bucket. Pushing up daisies. Gone to meet her Maker.  
  
None of them sounded right.  
  
A gentle hand lit on my shoulder. "Angel? Are you..." Wesley began, then reconsidered  
the question he was going to ask. Was I all right? Of course I was all right. Why  
wouldn't I be? Life would go on... I would go on... everything would remain exactly  
the way it had always been, and I wondered if Buffy would be upset that I had no milk  
in the fridge. You can't have tea without milk, she used to say... "Can I help?"  
  
I forced myself to turn and face him... pity and sorrow wet in his kind blue eyes.  
  
"I don't know if it would be right to make peppermint," I told him, and my voice  
sounded wrong... tinny and hollow, as if I was hearing myself from a great distance.  
I frowned. What was wrong with my voice?  
  
His mouth drew into a sad, tight line. He nodded, and took the bag and kettle from my  
hands.  
  
Did he know that Buffy liked peppermint? That the first time I suggested she could  
chew on the raw leaves to freshen her breath, she snorted that that was what Tic Tacs  
were for? Did he know that she curled her hair when the ends were still wet so she  
wouldn't get split ends, even though she knew she might get electrocuted? Or that she  
despised history class, but loved poetry, and that I used to read to her from books  
far older than would ever be, through long nights when we were desperate to be near  
one another, but were denied the simple comfort of touch? Did he know that her  
favorite color was blue -- not sky or navy, but Dusty Denim, a Dutch Boy paint that  
she saw in the hardware store when she was 9? Did he know that the last time I  
held her, I had no idea it would be the last time, and if I had, I never would have  
let her go?  
  
"Perhaps chamomile is the best choice for this occasion," he replied calmly, "Why  
don't you join the others, and let the expert take care of the tea?"  
  
I stared at him, wondering if I should remind him that I was two and a half centuries  
old... and Irish, thus plenty schooled in the fine art of tea-making, but chose to  
shrug and shuffle back to the lobby, instead. Everyone was exactly where I left them,  
only now Willow and Cordelia were crying together, and there was a big empty space at  
the end of the couch where they sat that just didn't seem like it belonged there...  
  
Or maybe that was the hole inside of me. Was it possible for my heart to turn to  
dust, and still leave the rest of my walking corpse intact?  
  
Willow's eyes met mine once more, and I could almost hear her thoughts, as clearly as  
if she'd spoken aloud.  
  
'You're the only one who knows. Who understands how much I miss her. She was part of  
my heart, and now I feel like I'm dying too. Do you?'  
  
I don't think I answered her. I should probably have been surprised at her new  
ability... maybe asked how the magick was developing, or how her new lover was, or  
how Dawn was handling this... or Giles... or even Xander. I should have been doing or  
saying *something* to help put the world back into its proper orbit and dispel the  
sensation in my stomach that if I walked back outside, I would find that the stars  
had all gone out, and the moon was weeping.  
  
I walked over to them, meaning to say something... I don't know what. Or maybe to  
give them a hug. But there was nothing inside me. No pain, no tears, no comfort to  
share, so instead I simply looked at them for a moment... how lost they were in their  
grief, and wished that I could be there too.  
  
"I, uh...I need... I'll be..." I stuttered, and went upstairs.  
  
What difference would it make what I said or did? Buffy was dead, and I didn't know  
if I would feel anything ever again.  
  
***  
  
It was too dark in my room, so I turned on all the lights. The air was stale and hot,  
so I threw open the French doors to the summer night. The resulting breeze eased  
through the empty room, kicking up a thin cloud of dust over everything. How many  
days had I been gone?  
  
Buffy had been dead for two.  
  
So I dusted... the feathered brush swishing back in forth in a hypnotic rhythm over  
the dull, hollow surfaces of my life's trappings. The books and the tables, the  
chairs, the television. I swept away the cobweb that had sprung up in the corner near  
the balcony door, and I saw that the sheets were dirty. I pulled them off, along with  
the pillowcases and the bedspread, and threw them in a heap by the door. Pulled fresh  
ones out of the linen closet and remade the bed, executing four of the finest  
hospital corners I'd ever managed. I stood there and stared at the flawless angles  
and failed to understand why they used to matter so much. All those bits of order I  
forced on the unnatural chaos of my existence, suddenly meaningless.  
  
There was so much to do, and I'd been gone for so long. The kitchenette floor needed  
mopping... maybe waxing, too. The fridge had developed a low rattle, and the blood  
inside was probably bad. So much to do... so much to do.  
  
But I couldn't find the screwdriver, and the blood smelled okay, and my skin was too  
dry and tight to handle hot water or Pine Sol right now. I couldn't find the will to  
wonder why I even needed dishes at all, really, and the linoleum needed replacing,  
not waxing. Tiny cracks had popped up here and there in the cream tiles, exposing the  
old wood underneath. Maybe I would strip the floor and restore the room's original  
hardwood. The shine would be nice...  
  
But it would make the space just that much darker.  
  
I sat down on the edge of my bed and looked at nothing.  
  
Buffy. My beautiful Buffy. My lover. My friend. My guiding light. My inspiration.  
Gone. Dead. Never coming back.  
  
I could feel the pulling in my chest... the labor it took to simply draw a single,  
unneeded breath, and there was a pressure behind my eyes that said I should have been  
crying.  
  
I loved her. No... *love* her. She was the reason I had come so far, and wasn't dust  
blowing in some cold Manhattan wind. I should have been mourning. I should have wept.  
After all, I'd bet that she cried for me when she was forced to send me to Hell. She  
would never talk about it, but I know her. I know she grieved for me.  
  
So why couldn't I feel anything?  
  
A soft knock fell on the door, and I laid back on the bed. I didn't want to answer. I  
couldn't look at any of them... at their pain or their concern... their confusion. I  
couldn't hear their condolences or reassurances that she didn't suffer... or that she  
was in a better place now. I didn't want to be held or consoled. I didn't want to  
*be*. I didn't want anything.  
  
I just wanted her back. Failing that, the rest of the world could go to Hell. And  
stay there.  
  
"Angel?"  
  
I closed my eyes and pretended that I wasn't there. Closed off my senses to sight,  
scent and sound, and tried to remember what it felt like in my own casket, more than  
two hundred years ago. But the images were old and dull... faded to the point where  
I wasn't sure what I was really remembering, and what was just remnants of a thousand  
screaming nightmares.  
  
Willow's weight depressed the mattress... but barely... as she sat down next to me. I  
laid there, and she sat there, and neither of us made a sound for... hours, maybe. I  
don't know. I kept my eyes closed, and neither of us asked for or offered comfort.  
  
I always knew that Buffy would die. She was mortal... and the Slayer. My logical mind  
carried that knowledge somewhere deep within. But, like everyone else, I thought that  
"Someday" was a distant, abstract future, far away from Now. That she would fool them  
all... beat the odds. Die old and grey at the end of a long, happy life, full of love  
and sunshine, laughter and children... and the Watchers' Council would huff and puff  
and wonder how she managed it when all the others had failed.  
  
I never thought it would be so soon. Never like this. Not without me having one  
last chance to tell her how much I loved her... how many precious gifts she gave me.  
How thankful I was, despite all the pain, that I had the honor of knowing her... of  
sharing some small part of her amazing life.  
  
I never thought the day she died would be today... or yesterday... or a week ago.  
Always "Someday".  
  
Willow took a long, hitching breath that finally broke into a sob, and my heart  
wrenched for her. I couldn't help the compulsion to sit up and reach out... take her  
warm, quivering form in my arms. I couldn't not help her in her hopelessness. That  
was my job. And she had once been my friend.  
  
But who would help me? Who would tell me that this was real? That I hadn't somehow  
tumbled back into the pits of Hell?  
  
"I loved her... so m-much, Angel! I wouldn't be who I am now if it wasn't for her. I  
don't know what to do! How am I supposed to live without her?" she cried, clutching  
me for dear life.  
  
I closed my eyes again, and breathed in the shampoo-clean scent of her hair. Pulled  
her more tightly to me and desperately wished I could *feel*. Something. Anything.  
  
Nothing came. So I just held her, because I didn't know how to answer her question. I  
didn't know if there was an answer.  
  
I simply didn't know how to believe that there could be a world without Buffy Summers  
in it.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
TBC...  
  
@Ducks@  
THE ANTI-JOSS!  
~~Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow~~  
Gateway to Ducks: http://www.alwaysangel.com  
  
.Insert Standard 'This is My Opinion and My Opinion Only' Disclaimer Here  
  
"Joss likes to stir it up. He likes a little chaos. He likes to piss people off. He  
likes to deny them what they want." - James Marsters to Entertainment Tonight.  
  
"There was nobody getting over Buffy and Angel. Just nobody." - Joss Whedon  
  
"Fred walks over to twitchy Angel and almost strokes his head before realizing that  
her hand is still covered in blood, and who knows how that will interact with his  
hair gel." - Strega's MightyBig TV review of "Through the Looking Glass"  
  
  
  
  



	2. Stages of Grief, Part 2

TITLE: Stage II: Anger  
SERIES: "Stages of Grief" (2/5)  
AUTHOR: Ducks, Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow  
EMAIL: Ducks@angelmailbox.com (DAMN THE WB!!!! *growl*)  
DISCLAIMER: Yeah. Like I'd give my *SELF* a hysterical nervous breakdown if they were  
mine. Pfft. They belong to people who don't really give much of a hoot about them.  
Their handlers and owners care not that the fans need to grieve with their beloved  
characters. *I* do. Unfortunately, I have to put them back in their lonely,  
disconnected universe when I'm done, and nobody gives me a red cent for caring about  
the way their histories are inexorably tied together. *sniff* To make a long story  
less long (We miss you, Lindsey!), not mine, don't sue.  
PAIRING: B/A  
TIMELINE: Post Season 5/2 Finales  
SPOILERS: Consider the entire canon fair game, especially BtVS5/AtS2, and  
ESPECIALLY-especially "The Gift" and "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb"  
SYNOPSIS: Following Angel and some friends through Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.  
The obligatory Buffy Death Fic.  
DISTRIBUTION: Send naked Angels and big, supportive hugs, and it's yours.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The reported end of crossovers leaves Angel's grief as possibly the  
biggest plothole in television history. Not to mention the central mythology of both  
series and characters that is the B/A relationship -- without that foundation stone,  
as far as I'm concerned, much of the magick is simply gone. Poo on JossCo.  
  
This story was inspired by my own experiences in response to the season finales. And  
yes, I know how twisted grieving for fictional characters is. ;) This is definitely  
not my best work... but I had to write it. Angel made me. He says all this happy,  
grinny, jokey stuff the writers are dishing out is crap. *g* No, I swear, he did!  
FEEDBACK: Desperately needed. Ease my pain. *sigh*  
RATING: PG-13  
CONTENT: MAJOR angst. References to character death. Did I mention the angst?  
DEDICATION: To my Devoted Minion Dru, for demanding that I "FIX IT!". To V, for  
feeling my pain. To Anja, who begged for gratuitous over-corpse wailing. And to my  
beloved Slashers, some of whom have come down with a sudden B/A bug. ;)  
  
"Stages of Grief" 2/5  
  
**Stage II: Anger**  
"The grieving person may then be furious: at the person who inflicted the hurt (even  
if she's dead), or at the world for letting it happen. He may be angry with himself  
for letting the event take place, even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped  
it." - From the "Arnot Ogden Medical Center's Guide to Dealing With Grief"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It took two weeks for me to even be able to consider going to Sunnydale. Two weeks of  
emptiness, running on automatic pilot. I didn't sleep... barely fed. Cordelia  
continued having visions, and my friends and I continued our work, as if the bottom  
hadn't fallen out of the universe. I chopped and sliced the demons, listened and  
spoke to those in need, and still... I sleepwalked through it all, unable to remember  
why I bothered. I was a husk of someone who once cared... the shell of an alleged  
champion. There was nothing all all left inside of me that could be called life.  
  
Cordelia was the one who finally bullied me into going. She didn't even try for  
compassionate subtlety. She simply told me, point blank, that I *had* to.  
  
"You have to say goodbye. You can't just walk around here pretending nothing's wrong.  
You have to *grieve*, Angel! You'll never be able to go on if you don't!"  
  
"I'm *fine*, Cordelia!" I told her for the thousandth time, "I don't have to go to  
Sunnydale to grieve."  
  
In fact, I'd become convinced that I didn't need to grieve at all. Hadn't I already  
mourned for Buffy the entire first year I spent here in LA? Didn't I cry myself to  
sleep every long, empty night for months over the loss of the only woman I'd ever  
loved? What need did I have to cry anymore? She was dead. Breaking down wouldn't  
bring her back. Nor would standing and staring at some rock with her name on it.  
  
Cordelia looked me straight in the eye. "Maybe not. But *I* do. And I need you to  
come with me. Please."  
  
She never liked Buffy very much... that was no secret. So her reaction over the past  
couple of weeks: sudden bouts of crying; her continual attempts to draw me into  
conversations where she would relive and remember our adventures on the Hellmouth...  
and now this? The meaning of it all eluded me.  
  
"Why?" I wondered aloud, "Why should you care? You never showed anything but disdain  
for Buffy and the way I felt about her before. You never gave a single positive  
thought to her when she was alive, so why now?"  
  
The anger suddenly beginning to well up in me was strange after all the nothingness.  
The sound of my voice slowly rising in volume and pitch was enough to make both Cordy  
and me jump.  
  
But she stood fast. Instead of walking away or shouting back, she took my hands and  
looked deeply into my eyes.  
  
"Maybe we were never really friends. But... whether I liked her or not, I respected  
her. I understood how important she was. And... she did save my life a bunch of  
times. You're right... I never told her any of that when she was alive. But... I need  
to show it now that she's..." Cordy shook her head as if to will the reality of it  
away. "I just need to. And I need to see the others. She was a *huge* part of our  
lives, Angel. We can't just pretend she never existed."  
  
My fury grew, like burning lava in my gut. What did Cordelia know about loving Buffy?  
About having her be so much a part of her that the loss was like being ripped in two  
from the inside?  
  
Roughly shaking off her hands, I barked, "I'm not going to Sunnydale, Cordelia, and  
that's final! Let it go, all right? If you need to be there, fine. Go. Take Wesley.  
Take Gunn. Take Fred, I don't care. But I'm not going!"  
  
I turned my back and stomped away, slamming the office door behind me.  
  
Only to have it crash open again a heartbeat later to admit a now enraged Cordy. She  
slammed her perfectly manicured hands down on the edge of my desk.  
  
"Why are you being such a stubborn jerk? You *loved* her! You gave up your *humanity*  
for her! Are you going to try and convince me you don't *care* that she's *DEAD*?!"  
  
I felt something snap inside of me... in my head, or maybe my soul, I'm not sure. But  
whatever it was broke, and the fury shot me from my chair.  
  
"HOW DARE YOU?!" I raged, "Who the Hell do you think you are? Of *course* I care that  
she's dead! I feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest! It's all I can do not  
to walk out into the sunrise every morning! How can you even *insinuate* that I don't  
*care*?!"  
  
She blinked, the tears that had been welling in her eyes finally breaking free to  
trickle down her tanned cheeks. Her voice was soft and scared as she said,  
  
"Because you haven't cried. Not even once. You haven't said her name out loud. You  
leave the room whenever we talk about her. You don't sleep. You don't eat. You  
haven't smiled once in two weeks. You shuffle around here like some creepy zombie  
hero robot with this blank look on your face. I know you hurt, Angel... I can *feel*  
it  
coming off you. And it scares me that you won't let yourself be sad that she's gone."  
  
The anger left me in a rush as I listened to her speech, and I was left drained and  
vacant once more. Too weak to stand any longer, I slumped back into my chair and  
stared down at the blotter on my desk.  
  
It still read "April 2001" -- I hadn't changed the calendar since I last went to  
Sunnydale. It was as though time had stopped when Buffy and I spent that night in the  
graveyard, talking. Like nothing had happened at all since that final kiss... that  
last goodbye that I failed to recognize. And in a flash, I remembered so many things  
I never got to tell her. Things I wanted so much to share, but held back because she  
needed to ease her burden... not take on mine.  
  
And now she would never know all that I had learned because of her.  
  
"I can't," I finally whispered, not raising my eyes from that date. "I don't  
have any tears left inside me for her. I can't go to Sunnydale. If I do... If I open  
myself to this..." I looked up slowly. "It might kill me."  
  
She gave me a soft, reassuring smile. "You're already dead. But... if you want to go  
on living in your own special un-living sort of way, you have to go. You know you  
do."  
  
I sighed and looked away again. "I'll think about it."  
  
"Fine. But... think fast, okay? I'm leaving at sunset."  
  
I looked up again once she'd left... left me alone with a single moment forever  
frozen in time, and a void where my dead heart should have been.  
  
***  
  
The grass in cemeteries is always an unnaturally flawless, deep emerald green, as if  
the combined life force of all the bodies buried its surface fed the soil. The blades  
were  
stiff and crisp, and crunched softly beneath my feet as I walked slowly through Sunny  
Rest. I wasn't in a hurry. After all, I had eternity to get to her... and she  
certainly wasn't going anywhere.  
  
The irony of this particular pilgrimage didn't escape me. I remembered so clearly  
hours we spent here, "hunting"...kissing and holding hands... dreaming and talking  
against this tree or that mausoleum. So little had changed, and yet... everything was  
completely different. Inverted. All wrong. The memories crowded around me as I made  
my way, whispering like ghosts of times past... moments we spent together now as dead  
and lost as she.  
  
It wasn't right. She should have been stalking the horrors that haunted this ground,  
not buried beneath it. She should have been able to smile and bury her nose in the  
dozens and dozens of white roses all around her. She shouldn't have been reduced to  
nothing but a slab of marble and a few sprouts of new grass.  
  
And she certainly shouldn't have had an evil, soulless demon drunk and caterwauling  
wretchedly over her grave.  
  
I was so shocked to see him there, for a long moment, I couldn't react at all beyond  
gaping. Spike sat, leaning hard against Buffy's gravestone, sobbing his way through  
some woeful mourning song, clutching a mostly empty bottle of scotch. Several others  
were scattered about... a couple of empties, and a few more full. Someone was  
obviously on a bender.  
  
There was the anger again. How *dare* he profane her memory like this? Spit on her  
very *existance*, insult the dignity of her sacrifice? I felt myself shift into demon  
face and took the last few feet between us in a single stride, grabbing him and  
hauling him to his feet.  
  
I can't remember what I said... I might have cursed him or threatened him... in  
Gaelic or Latin or Russian, I don't know. All I remember was blood red rage blinding  
my vision, the end result of which was my sending him flying a good twenty feet  
across the graveyard, where he finally crashed to earth...  
  
And promptly curled up into a ball where he landed, sobbing even harder than before.  
  
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!" I screamed, putting myself squarely between him and the grave.  
  
"Sod off!" he choked, finally uncurling and struggling to his feet. He stumbled back  
toward where I stood, and gave me a weak shove. "You got no right. *I* was *here*!  
Where the fuck were *you*? Why wasn't it *you* puttin' your precious immortal  
superhero ass on the line for her?" He slurred, punctuating his speech by flinging  
the empty bottle across the ground, and it landed with a dull thud a few feet away.  
"If anybody's outta line bein' here, it's YOU!" He concluded, and plopped down on the  
ground beside me, claiming the next full bottle, cracking the seal, and sucking half  
of it down in a single swig.  
  
"She fucking loved you, and you let her die," he added with a hiss. "So *you* fucking  
stay away from her."  
  
I blinked at him, still trembling with fury and indignance, still full of a burning  
desire to dust him right then and there. But... I didn't want his filthy remains  
anywhere near her resting place.  
  
Besides... he was right. My anger quickly turned inward. Why *hadn't* I been there?  
How did I dare to mourn her at all, when I might have been able to save her? I walked  
away. I was too weak to stay and try. The same weakness that had led to my mortal  
death drove me from her side, and she to her grave. I had never been able to say no.  
Never to her, even though I knew better. I couldn't fight my feelings... that pull  
like gravity that always brought me right back to her, when that was the last place I  
deserved to be. And my solution? Leave. Run away.  
  
I should have stayed. I should have tried. I should never have kissed her that first  
time. It should have been me who was dead. It should have been my final end. Who was  
I to forbid Spike his grief when ultimately, it was I who had failed?  
  
"I didn't even last 30 seconds," Spike moaned, "That bastard Doc tossed me off the  
tower like a bloody rag doll, and all I could do was fall." He looked up at me with  
an expression of agony like nothing I'd ever seen from him before. "I promised her  
I'd protect Dawn. I promised, and I failed. Now she's dead because of me."  
  
My rage was swept away by the shock of his pain, and for the first time, I could  
scent his genuine sorrow. He was really grieving for her.  
  
In the same moment, I grasped with a flash that this beast... this monster that I had  
tutored in torture and hatred and pain for a dozen years... loved her. Loved the  
Slayer. *MY* Slayer. And once I realized that, I could see it burning like an aura  
all around him.  
  
Spike was in love with Buffy.  
  
"You tried to kill her more times than I can *count*!" I spat, "I don't know what  
kind of twisted game you're playing, Spike, but... Go screw with someone else's loss!  
Your presence here is *disgusting*!"  
  
He raised narrowed eyes to me. "Yeah? Well I don't give a flying FUCK what you think,  
how about that? I fucking *loved* her. I threw Dru over for her. I bloody well let  
that Glory bitch torture me half to death to protect her. I would have died in her  
place without a fucking *blink*!" With vampire speed, he was on his feet once more  
and shrieking in my face. His liquor and cigarette breath was like a cold, putrid  
wind against my skin, and I had to turn away. "YOU fucking broke her heart! YOU  
fucking killed her a good, long time ago, and it's only now that she finally realized  
she was dead! So you can take your soulful, holier than thou white knight bullshit  
and go FUCK YOURSELF WITH IT!"  
  
He pushed me -- hard, this time -- and in my frozen shock, I stumbled a few steps  
back. Spike hovered over the grave, game face apparent, and began screaming at the  
memorial. "WHY!? Why did you fucking do it? You weren't supposed to DIE! You were  
supposed to fucking WIN! You were supposed to be a nasty, snotty, ass-kicking wench  
FOREVER! I FUCKING HATE YOU!" He hurled the scotch at the gravemarker, where it  
shattered, spilling golden liquid down its polished face. "STUPID MARTYR BITCH!"  
  
I didn't even think to move, but a moment later I found myself standing over Spike,  
my knuckles bloody from hard contact with his fangs.  
  
"DON'T YOU EVER DISRESPECT HER LIKE THAT, BOY! You're not fit to even share SPACE  
with her grave!"  
  
He laughed drunkenly... bitterly, and sat up, wiping the blood from his chin and  
licking it off before laying a sneer on me.  
  
"Yeah, that's right, Angelus. Take your guilt out on me. Don't worry, you can't say  
anything to me I haven't said to myself a million goddamn times already." Spike  
turned his gaze back to the stone and rose to his knees, tracing the letters of her  
name with trembling fingers. "I knew she'd never love me, but... She made me want to  
*be* something. She made me want to change. I haven't changed in a hundred bloody  
years, but she..." He shook his head as his tears returned. "It's not right that  
she's dead, and the world just keeps on going like she never existed at all."  
  
I couldn't comprehend any of this. I'd known that Spike was capable of love... of  
tenderness. He'd demonstrated that very fact countless times with Drusilla. But I  
also knew the basic essence of him was violent... bloodthirsty... in love with  
nothing more than the hunt and the kill. I remembered all too clearly the particular  
savagery of his Slayer obsession.  
  
How could it have transformed into this?  
  
"Half the time, I just wanna... kill. Everyone. Everything," he babbled on, "Shred  
the whole bloody human race, chip be damned. I almost wish I could get hold of  
Acathla again and suck this miserable slimehole of a world right into Hell myself.  
All these worthless fucking bloodbags just keep traipsing around like everything's  
honky dory. I hate them. I have every single soddin' one of them. They never  
appreciated her. They never gave half a toss what she gave up so they could go on  
living their puny, pathetic little lives."  
  
He leaned forward, pressing his face into the stone for a moment, his eyes closed,  
and his face a twisted mask of rage and pain.  
  
"I miss you, Slayer," he cried, "I miss you so bloody much."  
  
Shame washed through me once more. This villain had been here... he'd been by her  
side in her final days. He'd tried to help in spite of the dissonance with his  
nature. And where was I? Off playing hero in another world, bathing in sunlight and  
staring at my reflection, worrying about my hair.  
  
Spike finally dragged himself to his feet. He seemed to have forgotten I was there at  
all.  
  
"I'll never forget you, Summers. And I swear, I'll watch after Niblet till she takes  
her last breath. Which'll be a long bloody time from now, if I have anything to say  
about it." He pressed his fingers to his mouth, kissed them, and finally laid them  
over her name. "Rest well, luv. I'll see you again soon."  
  
Then, he claimed the last bottle of scotch from the grass, and left without another  
word or glance back at me.  
  
I couldn't bring myself to look at Buffy's gravestone. She wasn't there... what was  
the point? There was no part of the woman that I loved buried under that cold, hard  
ground.  
  
I looked up at the stars... I had forgotten they were so bright there. In LA, I could  
never see them at all. It was still early... barely eight o'clock, and yet I felt as  
though I'd been standing there for an eternity. The nights all seemed so long now.  
  
Everything that remained of Buffy was probably curled up on the couch, watching TV a  
few blocks away. The last remnants of my beloved's flesh and blood. What was I doing  
here, when Dawn...  
  
I turned and walked toward Revello Drive. If there was grieving to be done, I would  
do it there.  
  
***  
  
TBC...  
  
@Ducks@  
THE ANTI-JOSS!  
~~Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow~~  
Gateway to Ducks: http://www.alwaysangel.com  
  
.Insert Standard 'This is My Opinion and My Opinion Only' Disclaimer Here  
  
"Joss likes to stir it up. He likes a little chaos. He likes to piss people off. He  
likes to deny them what they want." - James Marsters to Entertainment Tonight.  
  
"There was nobody getting over Buffy and Angel. Just nobody." - Joss Whedon  
  
"Fred walks over to twitchy Angel and almost strokes his head before realizing that  
her hand is still covered in blood, and who knows how that will interact with his  
hair gel." - Strega's MightyBig TV review of "Through the Looking Glass"  
  
"I love you. Nothing can change that. Not even death." - Angel, "The Zeppo"  
  
  
  



	3. Stages of Grief, Part 3

TITLE: Stage III: Bargaining  
SERIES: "Stages of Grief" (3/5)  
AUTHOR: Ducks, Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow  
EMAIL: Ducks@angelmailbox.com (DAMN THE WB!!!! *growl*)  
DISCLAIMER: Yeah. Like I'd give my *SELF* a hysterical nervous breakdown if they were  
mine. Pfft. They belong to people who don't really give much of a hoot about them.  
Their handlers and owners care not that the fans need to grieve with their beloved  
characters. *I* do. Unfortunately, I have to put them back in their lonely,  
disconnected universe when I'm done, and nobody gives me a red cent for caring about  
the way their histories are inexorably tied together. *sniff* To make a long story  
less long (We miss you, Lindsey!), not mine, don't sue.  
PAIRING: B/A  
TIMELINE: Post Season 5/2 Finales  
SPOILERS: Consider the entire canon fair game, especially BtVS5/AtS2, and  
ESPECIALLY-especially "The Gift" and "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb"  
SYNOPSIS: Following Angel and some friends through Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.  
The obligatory Buffy Death Fic.  
DISTRIBUTION: Send naked Angels and big, supportive hugs, and it's yours.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The reported end of crossovers leaves Angel's grief as possibly the  
biggest plothole in television history. Not to mention the central mythology of both  
series and characters that is the B/A relationship -- without that foundation stone,  
as far as I'm concerned, much of the magick is simply gone. Poo on JossCo. *pout*  
  
This story was inspired by my own experiences in response to the season finales. And  
yes, I know how twisted grieving for fictional characters is. ;) This is definitely  
not my best work... but I had to write it. Angel made me. He says all this happy,  
grinny, jokey stuff the writers are dishing out is crap. *g* No, I swear, he did!  
FEEDBACK: Desperately needed. Ease my pain. *sigh*  
RATING: PG-13  
CONTENT: MAJOR angst. References to character death. Did I mention the angst?  
DEDICATION: To my Devoted Minion Dru, for demanding that I "FIX IT!". To V, for  
feeling my pain. To Anja, who begged for gratuitous over-corpse wailing. And to my  
beloved Slashers, some of whom have come down with a sudden B/A bug. ;)  
  
"Stages of Grief" 3/5  
  
**Stage III: Bargaining**  
"At this stage, the grieving person may make bargains with God: 'If I do this, will  
you take away the loss?'" - From the "Arnot Ogden Medical Center's Guide to Dealing  
With Grief"  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When Buffy's house first came into view, I came close to turning the car around and  
going back home. What did I think I was going to accomplish by coming here? Dawn had  
all of Buffy's friends around her. She certainly didn't need me, the vampire who made  
her sister's life various kinds of living torture over the years.  
  
I hadn't seen her at all since I left Sunnydale. She'd be 14, now -- a young woman --  
no longer the sweet little girl that used to make me stand in front of mirrors all  
the time because she was fascinated by my lack of reflection.  
  
When push came to shove, Dawn was really the only one who never looked at me with  
fear, even after I tried to eat her on Valentine's Day three years ago. When I came  
back from Hell, she was the only one who welcomed me unequivocally... the only one  
who really accepted that I wasn't Angelus. In her simple, child's view of reality,  
the demon was the demon, and I was something else.  
  
So I think I broke her heart nearly as much as anyone's when I left. I remembered her  
coming to the mansion a few nights after I broke up with Buffy. How she had screamed  
and raged at my selfishness; for being such a "wussy"; for giving up so easily on her  
sister. She ripped my heart into even tinier pieces that night, ultimately planting  
the seeds for my final decision to go to the prom.  
  
Dawn was more than just my lover's sister... there were many times when I felt as  
though she were my own. A living second chance to be the presence in a young life  
that I should have been with Katherine.  
  
But I killed Kathy, didn't I? And I almost killed Dawn... along with everyone else  
she loved. I broke her sister's heart time and time again. What right did I have to  
try and offer condolences now?  
  
Was that even why I came? Or was I here to get comfort for myself from the only  
living remainder of all that Buffy was? Did I need a reminder of just what she died  
for?  
  
I didn't know. And when I pulled up in front of 1630, I found Dawn sitting on the  
front steps, and it was too late to change my mind either way.  
  
She watched me coming up the walk with those big, blue eyes, and I could see anguish  
written so clearly there... But they were dry, and she almost managed a smile at my  
approach.  
  
"Took you long enough," she complained lightly.  
  
It was meant as a joke, I'm sure, but the blunt truth of it sliced right through me.  
It had taken far too long for me to come home. And now that I had... home wasn't even  
there anymore.  
  
"Sorry," I mumbled, and tried to return her smile.  
  
Dawn moved over, making a space for me beside her on the step.  
  
It was painful to look at her... this brave girl, left alone to bear the burden of a  
family destroyed, and the knowledge that it was at least partly because of her. That  
Buffy's death was her fault.  
  
I thought that, and was immediately horrified that I had. It wasn't her *fault*. She  
never asked for any of this. It was no one's fault -- it was just the way things went  
when we were all at the mercy of the cruel hands of fate. Buffy might have been the  
greatest Slayer in history, but she was still only human... and the simple fact  
remained -- humans die. At least Buffy's end had some meaning. And I gazed long and  
hard at that meaning sitting beside me.  
  
"How are you?" I asked. People always say foolish things in moments like that... when  
you know, deep down, that there really isn't anything you *can* say, and yet... the  
social instinct of humanity compels you to reach out anyway. I might be something  
other than human, but my soul was still bound by that simple rule.  
  
She shrugged, her gaze cast to the ground. "I'm not dead."  
  
Those three words conveyed so much... sorrow and loss, guilt and gratitude all at  
once.  
  
I knew intimately how she felt.  
  
"No, you're not," I agreed.  
  
Dawn forced her eyes upward and looked at me quietly for a long time. I felt pressed  
under her scrutiny, as though she was trying to look into my mind... my heart and  
soul, to see what I was feeling. So much like her sister had years ago, when she was  
briefly telepathic, and she attempted to read my thoughts.  
  
It hurt now to remember... all Buffy ever had to do was ask. She never had to trick  
me into talking to her...  
  
"You didn't come to the funeral," she observed. "I kind of thought you would."  
  
This time, it was me who shrugged. "I didn't know it happened until... after."  
  
She nodded, and we fell into a silence both companionable and awkward at once. We  
looked out together at the stars, lost in our thoughts, until she spoke once more.  
  
"I know how to bring her back," she informed me softly.  
  
I turned to stare at her, uncertain if I heard correctly. "What?"  
  
Our gazes met, and I found a bold determination burning behind her eyes. A knowledge  
and wisdom that no child her age should possess -- should have to possess -- and it  
chilled me to the bone. Was she saying...  
  
"I know how to bring Buffy back to life. I could do it. It's easy. I did it with my  
mom, and I think it would have worked, but... I changed my mind and broke the spell  
at the last minute."  
  
"Dawn..." I began to object.  
  
"No, I know. It wouldn't be right. I mean... it wouldn't really be... her," she  
admitted sadly, "But it's so hard not to, Angel. I miss her so much, and... she  
shouldn't be dead. It's not fair."  
  
Her voice broke at the end, and I was once again overwhelmed with emotion in the face  
of another's grief. I so envied her that outpouring. I reached out to put my arm  
around her, and she leaned heavily against my shoulder.  
  
"No, she shouldn't be," I concurred, "But she is. You have to let her go."  
  
"I know," she whimpered, then suddenly yanked away. "No, you know what? I DON'T know!  
She died for ME! WHY? I'm not even REAL! She should have just LET ME DIE!"  
  
It had been so hard for me to fathom what Buffy told me that night at her mother's  
grave... that Dawn wasn't Dawn at all... or at least, she hadn't been until a few  
months before. I had so many memories of time we spent together. It was beyond my  
understanding that they weren't genuine, when I could feel every moment of it in my  
heart.  
  
I grabbed her gently and turned her to look at me once more. The agony in her eyes  
ripped me apart.  
  
"Dawn, you *are* real. Real enough for Buffy to be willing to die for. Don't diminish  
that by trying to raise a zombie with her face. You have to go on. She would want you  
to."  
  
Her bottom lip trembled, tears splashing in a torrent down her flushed cheeks, and  
for a moment, she was the little girl that I once knew... small and innocent, crushed  
under the unbearable force of a world that seemed to have nothing to offer her but  
pain.  
  
Or maybe, I was simply seeing Buffy reflected in her.  
  
"How... how am I supposed to..." she sobbed, "The last thing she said to me was  
that... she wanted me to live. For her. How can I, Angel? She was strong, and  
beautiful, and funny, and everybody loved her. I'll... I'll never be her! I'll never  
be able to pay her back!"  
  
She collapsed in my arms and I held her, listening to her beg God to bring Buffy  
back, and take her instead.  
  
"Please! I'll do anything!" she wailed, "Anything!"  
  
I closed my eyes, rocking her gently, and struggled to fathom what felt to me to be  
the ultimate injustice. How could the Powers think that this was fair? To heap sorrow  
after sorrow on this child and all the people around her -- good people, who laid  
everything on the line... sacrificed everything they held dear, for what they thought  
was right? Whose darkest sin had been loving the Chosen One?  
  
And Buffy... Sweet Buffy, who had wanted so little for her life... who asked for  
nothing more than the normalcy every other human being took for granted. She'd had  
such simple dreams. All she wanted was to live... to love... so little to ask, when  
she had given so much.  
  
Anger welled up in me once more. Why? Why her? She had never been anything but brave  
and strong in the face of a world that refused to stay solid under her feet. Why  
should she and all of her dreams be dead when I, a monster who had perpetuated the  
darkest evils imaginable, was allowed to remain?  
  
It wasn't right. And as I held Dawn, listening to her keening echo in the fading  
night, I vowed to myself that I would do something about it. They called me a  
champion. A warrior for right. Helper of the hopeless.  
  
Perhaps this was my chance to finally earn those accolades.  
  
***  
  
Lorne didn't look the least bit surprised when I arrived at Caritas just before dawn.  
He simply leaned the broom he had been holding against the bar, and stepped forward  
to take me in a comforting embrace.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Angel," he said softly as he pulled away, "I know how much she meant  
to you. I wish there was something I could do."  
  
I pulled away and held his gaze. "There is. I want an audience with the Powers."  
  
He blinked very slowly, and wiggled a finger in his ear as if to clear it. "That's  
better. Now... could you repeat that, because I could have sworn you just said..."  
  
"You heard me. I want to talk to the Powers That Be. Now."  
  
"Oh. Oh, honey," he chuckled sadly, backing away. "I know you're hurtin' and all, and  
really, I'm sorrier than you can imagine, but..."  
  
I followed him. "No. No but. I know it can be done. And either you know how, or you  
know someone who does."  
  
His expression changed quickly from shock to a mixture of pity and incredulity as he  
sank onto a barstool.  
  
"Sweetie, there's no way. I know you mean well, but..."  
  
I took the last space between us, and leaned down so that our faces were inches  
apart.  
  
"I'm supposed to be Their Chosen, aren't I? I have a *right*!"  
  
The Host sighed, his gaze dropping to the half-empty drink on the bar. "No one has  
that right, Angel. You can't just go running to the Powers every time something  
happens that you don't like. It's just not done."  
  
"NOT DONE?" I heard myself shouting, "LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU THINK I  
GIVE A *DAMN* WHAT'S NOT *DONE*! Do you know how to contact them or NOT?"  
  
Some part of me felt badly for taking this out on my friend. But I had to do this. I  
had to make myself heard this final time, do whatever I could to remedy this  
injustice, or I might never be able to fight under Their banner again. The Oracles  
were dead... the swimming pool where I had undertaken the Trials for Darla was  
repaired and filled. All my other options were lost, leaving only him.  
  
He frowned, and for the first time since I'd known him, I saw some measure of anger  
on his placid features. Still, though, his voice remained calm and even. "Angel.  
Honey. Stop. Think about this. I know that you're angry. You feel cheated. You gave  
up everything so your lady love could live a long, happy life." Lorne rose from the  
stool and gently pushed me backward, out of his personal space. "You think you got  
ripped off by the Powers. You feel guilty that you weren't there... that it wasn't  
you who died... *and* you can't stop thinking that you could have spent those last  
few months together, if you knew your sacrifice would go to waste. That's all  
perfectly *normal*. But raging at the Powers won't change what has to be! You of all  
people know that you can't thwart Destiny. Remember a little evening of fun called  
The Trials?"  
  
I shoved him away. "I didn't come here for *therapy*, Lorne!" I hissed, "And this is  
completely different from what happened with Darla. Buffy was *good*! *Always*! She  
had *nothing* on her soul to be punished for! She deserved to LIVE!"  
  
He stood up straight, shrugging out the shoulders of his jacket with a sigh. "Sure  
she did. But it doesn't matter, puddin'. What you're asking can't be done. Come on...  
let me make you a nice O-Pos Mary, and we'll sit down and..."  
  
"NO!" I screamed, wrenching the barstool closest to me from its moorings, and hurled  
it across the bar, smashing what little of the mirrors and bottles of liquor remained  
from the car plowing through it on our return from Pylea.  
  
I can't tell you what came over me... where my last shreds of sense and sanity went.  
I can't even tell you much about what happened next but that I unleashed my fury at  
the gods themselves on Caritas.  
  
Mercy. What a joke. There was no mercy to be found under the heavens. No justice at  
all if a pure, honorable soul could be ripped away... and for what? Some endless war  
that never had a victor, that kept swallowing generation after generation of beings  
whose only crime was the having the bad luck to be born with goodness in their  
hearts?  
  
The Host didn't try to stop me as I destroyed his home and livelihood, cursing the  
name of every deity and saint that popped into my head. He stood quietly nearby, his  
face marked with his trademark empathy, calmly waiting for the madness to pass.  
  
He had, after all, said he wanted to remodel the bar.  
  
But it didn't pass... or even fade. It seemed to go on forever. Even in my soulless  
days, I'd never been so driven with unadulterated rage... with such a pure hunger to  
annihilate. I shudder to imagine, thinking back on it now, that if I had gone on  
Lorne himself might have fallen in that maelstrom of grief.  
  
Then a pain struck me... hot and sharp like a bolt of lightning, and the world was  
wiped out in a rush of storm wind that sucked all of the superfluous oxygen out of my  
dead lungs.  
  
I remember thinking in that moment, as the familiar decor of Caritas vanished and I  
saw and felt and heard nothing, that God had finally struck me down. If I'd have had  
any form at all, I probably would have laughed at the irony. Of all the countless  
sins I had committed, it was that one, born of ultimate pain and sorrow, that finally  
pissed Him off enough to take me out, once and for all.  
  
But it was only a moment, and then with another rush of wind, I... *was*, again, for  
lack of a better term. I looked down and could see my body, dressed in the same  
clothes I had been wearing since yesterday, fresh blood on my hands from crushing  
glass, wood and Formica to fine powder.  
  
I had form... but wherever I had arrived did not. All I saw was a murky grey in every  
direction. I stood in a void... no ground, no walls, and no sky. Just emptiness.  
  
The same color, I imagined, as my shattered heart.  
  
A voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere at once. I call it a voice, but... that's  
not what it was. I don't think it was really even a sound at all. More... a sensation  
inside of me. And when the sensation spoke... or... moved... it wasn't a voice, but  
The Voice. Indeed, all The Voices. I stood frozen in awe and confusion.  
  
Creation was speaking to me.  
  
"You question."  
  
I didn't understand. Was it asking me, or telling me?  
  
"Yes," I finally replied.  
  
"It is what it is."  
  
Great. What or whoever spoke was far more cryptic than Lorne had ever dreamed of  
being. Well... I did ask for an audience. Maybe this was the reason why they never  
gave one.  
  
I swallowed stiffly. So... I was here... whatever here was. What now?  
  
"We had a bargain," I reminded Them.  
  
"You cannot barter with the Cycle. There is only movement. Oneness."  
  
There was no way for me to piece together this puzzle. All of the abstract philosophy  
I had read over the centuries in no way prepared me to deal with this.  
  
So I simply spoke from my heart... from the dark pit of rage and pain that froze the  
edges of my soul.  
  
"I want her back. You can't take her!" I shouted into the nothing. "You expect me to  
represent your Justice? Your Law? How can I when you can't keep a simple deal with  
ME?"  
  
The void blinked... white, then black, and finally back to that empty grey once more,  
as if it was thinking. Then there was a POP! like the cork being pulled from a bottle  
of champagne, and I found myself looking into eyes of crystal clear blue that I never  
thought to see again.  
  
At least... not in this world.  
  
"Ach. So much for eternal rest, eh?" the apparition complained.  
  
I blinked at it. Closed my eyes. Shook my head to clear my vision. But when I looked  
again, it was still there -- a grief long scarred over, suddenly returned to life.  
  
He gave me a crooked grin, and threw open his arms. "Ya just gonna stand there, or  
are ya gonna say hello to your long lost pal?"  
  
"Doyle?" I gasped, but didn't move toward him.  
  
He looked the same. Exactly the same as the night he died. The same cocky smirk, the  
same slovenly outfit, the same barely-combed hair, and even the faded scent of  
whiskey wafting from his skin.  
  
He nodded. "Yep. Guess I don' need to ask how you are," he said softly, giving me a  
once over. For the first time, I realized what I must look like in my rumpled,  
blood-stained clothes. When his eyes met mine once more, I found the same thing in  
them that I'd been witnessing from all my friends in the past few weeks. Pity.  
Compassion. Sorrow. Even ghosts felt sorry for me.  
  
I had to turn away. It was too much, to look on yet another being that I had loved so  
dearly, and who had sacrificed himself to save others. Was I the only one, then? The  
only one unwilling... or maybe unable... to die for what I believed in?  
  
"Aw, Angel, come on. You know that ain't true. You sacrifice every day. You walked  
away from Buffy in the first place so that she could have a better life. You were  
willing to die for Darla. Hell..." he glanced around at the nothing that surrounded  
us. "You pretty much put your eternal ass on the block just to come here. They don't  
take too kindly to their soldiers cursing 'em in public, you know?"  
  
I forced my gaze up at him again. "Why are you here?"  
  
Doyle shrugged. "They can't communicate with you. They can't give you any answers  
because they don't understand your questions. So they sent me to help out." He leaned  
in and whispered conspiratorially, "And to be honest, the timing was damn good. Me  
old da was handing me my ass at poker. Again."  
  
I stared at him in wonder and remembered... I had been able to grieve for Doyle. I  
had been able to cry, to fall apart, and finally to accept his passing as the way  
things had to be. I had vowed to carry on in his name, the memory of his bravery  
always at the forefront of my heart, part of the crest I would bear on my shield  
until the last battle was won.  
  
Why couldn't I do the same for the very woman who had inspired me to take up that  
shield in the first place?  
  
Doyle's smile turned sad, and he stepped toward me, laying a gentle hand on my arm.  
  
"Because ya don't really believe she's dead, that's why."  
  
I frowned at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I believe she's dead."  
  
He shook his head. "No. You won't let yourself believe it, because you don't think it  
's right. Not that I blame ya. I mean, let's face it, ya loved the girl, didn't ya?  
She was the center of your whole universe for a long, long time. The reason for every  
damn thing that you ever did. It's hard to let go of something that important."  
  
"Tell them to take me," I suddenly found myself begging him, grabbing his shoulders  
and giving them a shake. "Take me instead of her. She didn't deserve to die."  
  
"Doesn't work that way, my friend. What the Big Guys were trying to tell you before  
was just that... Death is part of the Plan, you know? Everybody's got an expiration  
date. You know it, and your Buffy knew it. I knew when I'd reached mine, too. Nobody  
wants to stop living, Angel. But... sometimes we have to. Sometimes that's just the  
way it is, and without that part of the circle, the rest of it's just... meaningless.  
What good is everything After if you don't go through everything Before?"  
  
I could hear his words... I knew what he was telling me, but I couldn't see how this  
Zen fortune cookie garbage was any more helpful than the nonsense The Voice had been  
spewing on my arrival. I didn't want to have koans preached to me. I didn't want  
abstract logical puzzles to sort through. I wanted answers. I thought They had sent  
Doyle to clarify our communication...  
  
"Well... yeah and no," he explained, reading my thoughts once more, "You came to beg  
a case. To plead for them to give her back to you. But They can't do that, pal. You  
know they can't. Done is done... one door closes and another opens and all that,  
remember?"  
  
"They why are you here?" I shouted at him, "Why did They bother sending you if they  
weren't even going to hear my argument?"  
  
"Hey, brother, listen to yourself! 'Argument?' You got an argument against Death that  
They haven't heard a million times already? You can't tell Them anything about young  
Buffy They didn't already know, can ya?"  
  
Of course I couldn't... They had, after all, made her what she was. And They had to  
know by now what she meant to me... and to everyone else who knew her.  
  
"Doyle... They can't do this," I whispered, the effort of speaking finally too much,  
"It's not right."  
  
"That's just it. It *is* right. And that's why They sent me. To give you what you  
need, instead of what you think you want."  
  
*Think* I want? Did the Powers somehow imagine that my deepest desire wasn't to see  
Buffy one more time? That I didn't want, more than anything I had ever wanted before,  
for her to *live*?  
  
I'd given up everything for exactly that.  
  
Doyle's posture drooped a little when he responded, as though he was sorry for what  
he had to say. "They never promised you that she'd live forever, Angel. In fact, they  
never promised anything at all but that you could have That Day back."  
  
Anger flashed briefly inside me, but vanished almost instantly. Some part of me knew  
that I couldn't be upset at the Powers, because Doyle was right. The Oracles had done  
only exactly what they promised.  
  
"If it makes you feel any better," he went on, "She would have died a lot sooner --  
and stupidly -- if you had stayed human."  
  
I wanted it to make me feel better, I really did. But I was unsurprised when it only  
made me angrier.  
  
"Fine," I snapped, "So what do the All Wise think I *need*, then?"  
  
"You need to see something," he informed me, giving me a smack on the shoulder.  
  
For an instant, I was awash in a memory... another tacky half-demon, but this one on  
a cold Manhattan street. "I've got something I want you to see. Then you tell me what  
you want to do."  
  
But Doyle's hand against the leather of my coat made a booming sound, like thunder,  
and another explosion of white light shattered my vision.  
  
When it cleared again, we were somewhere that seemed to be a construction site --  
there was clutter and scaffolding everywhere, lumber and power tools littering the  
ground. Time crawled by, while Doyle and I moved normally through the rubble. Fire  
rained down from the Heavens... the air was split with shouting, and the shriek of  
monsters materializing everywhere. I looked up, and saw the universe crack wide  
open... an ocean of electricity tearing at the sky above.  
  
The apocalypse. Was this happening now? Tomorrow? Next week? Sometime in the past?  
  
My answer came in the form of familiar faces that began to appear here and there...  
caught in the heat of battle. Giles fired a crossbow into a crowd of unfamiliar  
demons... Willow and her blonde friend chanted frantically, casting spells almost  
randomly into the fray. I found myself stepping over the prone form of Spike, who  
bled profusely from wounds in his head that looked serious... like his skull was  
crushed from a fall.  
  
A fall... I suddenly remembered Willow's story... Buffy had jumped... leapt to  
certain death from a tower built to be the centerpoint of the convergence that would  
tear a hole in the fabric dividing the dimensions. The only way to stop the ritual  
was to stop Dawn's blood from flowing... Summers blood... Buffy's blood.  
  
We were at the scene of Buffy's death.  
  
For a moment, I froze, unable to fathom why the Powers would think I needed to come  
*here*... to see *this*. I found my gaze pulled upward once more, a whole new horror  
rushing through me. They believed I needed to see this... Buffy falling toward me,  
her body already limp and still except for the motion of the fall, dead limbs  
flailing as if to take flight. All painfully slow, as if someone had turned down the  
speed of the world, so I wouldn't miss a single moment... an excruciating detail.  
  
I barely heard myself screaming her name above the gale... it took forever for her to  
finally crash to earth in the middle of a pile of rubble a few feet away.  
  
"NOOOOOO!" I bellowed, diving into the debris where her beautiful body lay, now  
broken and lifeless.  
  
I scooped her limp form into my arms. She was already growing cold, her skin paling  
to the dull grey pallor of death, despite the expression of peace and acceptance  
etched on her beautiful face... That face that so haunted my dreams...  
  
Everyone and everything vanished but she and I as I held her... crushed the shell  
that had once housed the most precious soul in all creation to my chest, and wept  
senselessly. For the first time since I found Willow in the lobby of the Hyperion, I  
*felt* it.. The reality, the finality of it all... her final decision, and the peace  
that came with the knowledge that she was about to die for the world -- for her  
sister. Her love for all of those she was leaving behind... including myself. I  
finally felt her go the way I always knew that I would, as if part of me had taken  
her hand and gone right along with her.  
  
At last the dam broke inside me... the wall I hadn't wanted to admit I had built  
around my heart crumbled, and an anguish like nothing I'd experienced since I  
regained my soul ripped through the center of my being.  
  
For the first time, I not only knew... I *believed*. My beloved was dead.  
  
"Oh God, Buffy!" I sobbed, collapsing around her... wailing until I thought the  
universe might be washed away in the tempest. I touched her beautiful face... ran my  
fingers through the silken cascade of her hair, and kissed her cold, blue lips.  
  
Doyle was right... despite all my protests to the contrary, I hadn't really believed  
that she could be dead. The truth of it didn't register inside of me until those  
endless hours as I knelt there, weeping over her body. I finally knew...  
  
This was real. This was her corpse. Buffy was really gone, and all the begging and  
anger and wishes in the cosmos would never bring her back. It was her shell buried  
under those mounds of roses in Sunny Rest. That stone with her name on it really was  
the final memorial that marked her passing.  
  
I bawled like a wounded child until I was bone dry, and finally could do nothing more  
than shake, sick to death with this truth. All this time that she and I had been  
separated, some small part of me had clung to a sliver of hope that someday...  
somehow, Buffy and I would be reunited. When the wars were over and we were released  
from our Duty... When I again had a heartbeat and true breath with which to speak her  
name, I honestly believed that we would grow old and die together.  
  
Now, that would never happen. We would have no happily ever after.  
  
The scene vanished, her body gone from my desperate embrace, and I found myself back  
on the floor of the bar, held tight in Lorne's arms.  
  
"It's okay, Angel. It's gonna be okay," he lied, and gently helped me to my feet.  
  
As he led me out the door and we got in a cab, I felt Doyle's voice, one last time,  
in my heart.  
  
"You will be together again, my friend. Someday... "  
  
***  
  
@Ducks@  
THE ANTI-JOSS!  
Ducks@angelmailbox.com  
~~~~  
Gateway to Ducks: http://www.alwaysangel.com  
.Insert Standard 'This is My Opinion and My Opinion Only' Disclaimer Here  
  
"After some bootyesque confusion about the wedding night, Groosy explains that, after  
they boink, Groosy will become the lucky bearer of Cordy's visions. Cordy  
inexplicably complains, "You can't take my visions! I need them -- they are the lame  
pretext by which we get the episodes started!" Or something like that. " - Strega,  
MBTV Review of "No Place Like..."  
  
"Fred walks over to twitchy Angel and almost strokes his head before realizing that  
her hand is still covered in blood, and who knows how that will interact with his  
hair gel." - Strega, MBTV review of "Through the Looking Glass"  
  
"I love you. Nothing can change that. Not even death." - Angel to Buffy, "The  
Zeppo"  



	4. Stages of Grief, Part 4

TITLE: Stage IV: Depression  
SERIES: "Stages of Grief" (4/5)  
AUTHOR: Ducks, Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow  
EMAIL: Ducks@angelmailbox.com (DAMN THE WB!!!! *growl*)  
DISCLAIMER: Yeah. Like I'd give my *SELF* a hysterical nervous breakdown if they were  
mine. Pfft. They belong to people who don't really give much of a hoot about them.  
Their handlers and owners care not that the fans need to grieve with their beloved  
characters. *I* do. Unfortunately, I have to put them back in their lonely,  
disconnected universe when I'm done, and nobody gives me a red cent for caring about  
the way their histories are inexorably tied together. *sniff* To make a long story  
less long (We miss you, Lindsey!), not mine, don't sue.  
PAIRING: B/A  
TIMELINE: Post Season 5/2 Finales  
SPOILERS: Consider the entire canon fair game, especially BtVS5/AtS2, and  
ESPECIALLY-especially "The Gift" and "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb"  
SYNOPSIS: Following Angel and some friends through Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.  
The obligatory Buffy Death Fic.  
DISTRIBUTION: Send naked Angels and big, supportive hugs, and it's yours.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The reported end of crossovers leaves Angel's grief as possibly the  
biggest plothole in television history. Not to mention the central mythology of both  
series and characters that is the B/A relationship -- without that foundation stone,  
as far as I'm concerned, much of the magick is simply gone. Poo on JossCo. *pout*  
  
This story was inspired by my own experiences in response to the season finales. And  
yes, I know how twisted grieving for fictional characters is. ;) This is definitely  
not my best work... but I had to write it. Angel made me. He says all this happy,  
grinny, jokey stuff the writers are dishing out is crap. *g* No, I swear, he did!  
FEEDBACK: Desperately needed. Ease my pain. *sigh*  
RATING: PG-13  
CONTENT: MAJOR angst. References to character death. Did I mention the angst?  
DEDICATION: To my Devoted Minion Dru, for demanding that I "FIX IT!". To V, for  
feeling my pain. To Anja, who begged for gratuitous over-corpse wailing. And to my  
beloved Slashers, some of whom have come down with a sudden B/A bug. ;)  
  
"Stages of Grief" 4/5  
**Stage IV: Depression**  
"The person feels numb, although anger and sadness may remain underneath." - From the  
"Arnot Ogden Medical Center's Guide to Dealing With Grief"  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Has he eaten anything?" Cordy whispered, as though I didn't have preternatural  
hearing, and every word she said wasn't as clear as if she were standing right next  
to me, and not out in the hall.  
  
"No. The mug's exactly where I left it this afternoon," Wesley whispered in response.  
  
They were performing their daily ritual of "Check on the Broken Vampire". It was  
always the same. One would come in just before sunset and make sure I hadn't walked  
out to meet that morning's dawn, then gently call my name, and sigh when I didn't  
bother to respond, before they finally gave up and left. They took turns bringing me  
blood that I never drank, leaving me the paper that I never read, and then went out  
to carry on a mission that I just didn't see any point to anymore.  
  
What did any of it matter? My only reason for being was gone, and it was nothing more  
than weakness that kept me from doing exactly what my friends feared. Eventually, I  
imagined, I would reach starvation state and turn into a rabid animal, then they  
would be forced to stake me, and I could finally go to my rest... finally be with  
Buffy.  
  
That was assuming that my soul went to Heaven...  
  
"It's been over a week. He can't go on like this!" Cordy complained.  
  
"I don't think he wants to go on at all," Wesley informed her adroitly.  
  
"We can't just let him kill himself! We have to *do* something!"  
  
"Like what, Cordelia?" Gunn piped in, "Tie him down and force him to eat? What  
exactly do you think we can do that we haven't tried already?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe... Dawn can talk to him again..."  
  
Dawn had come on the third day I spent in bed and sat beside me, spending a few hours  
remembering aloud many good times that she, Buffy and I had spent together.  
  
I only burrowed deeper into the pillows and tuned her out. Eventually, she too gave  
up and left.  
  
"I don't believe there's anything else we can do," Wesley went on, "He needs to  
grieve in his own way... in his own time. Ten days seems a long while to us, but...  
to an immortal, it's merely a moment. He'll come 'round."  
  
"If he doesn't *starve* to death, first!" Cordy sniped.  
  
I knew I was being selfish... childish... weak... immature, and I just didn't care.  
The vision of Buffy's death... the final, awful reality of it, sat on my chest like a  
ten-ton stone, crushing me under its unbearable weight. The feeling was so much  
worse, even, than that night I spent with Darla. Even in that moment of what I  
thought was utter hopelessness, when I plunged into the familiar cold of my Sire's  
dead flesh, some minute part of me still hoped. Hoped, at least, for an end to the  
pain.  
  
Now there was no hope at all. The only thing that remained was agony. Anguish that,  
once upon a time in a long ago dream, a beautiful girl with eyes of summer moss and  
hair of spun gold had chased away with a single touch of her small, warm hand.  
  
I had believed that there were no tears left inside of me. I thought, as I had  
mourned over the phantom of her corpse, that I had gone dry, and all that remained of  
my heart was dust. But as a week stretched into two, and I hid in the shadows of my  
lonely room waiting to die, still I wept. I would look up and see a shadow, and think  
it might be her. I would hear a ghostly whisper, and be certain for a moment that she  
had returned. I kept waiting for her to appear in the doorway and say, "Oh, this is  
really attractive, Angel. Come on, did you really think I would leave you? Don't be  
such an ass." And then the world would be right again.  
  
She never did. She never would. And so, still I lamented for the loss of her, like  
some mourner in a tragic fairy tale, my endless life's only meaning.  
  
***  
  
Of all the people who tried to reach me during those weeks, it was the newest of my  
friends who finally succeeded.  
  
Fred came in early one evening, armed with a book, a cup of coffee, and a freshly  
baked cake... that smelled distinctly like a bizarre mixture of chocolate and blood.  
  
The odd combination caught my attention, even through the haze in which I had been  
existing. I listened to her move about the room... set the cake down on the table  
near the windows, and opened the French doors, flooding the stuffy space with fresh,  
warm air. Then she plopped down on the couch, set her coffee on the end table, turned  
on the light, curled her legs up beneath her, and began to read.  
  
I laid there for a while, waiting for her to say something. To ask how I was, or  
insist that I eat, as the others had done. But she didn't. This was a new approach,  
and I found myself curious about what she was doing. That curiosity forced me out of  
bed, into my long forgotten sweats, and dragged my sorry carcass toward the sitting  
room, where I finally leaned heavily in the doorway.  
  
After a few moments, Fred finally noticed my presence, and looked up to give me a  
sweet smile.  
  
"Oh, hi! You're up! I didn't mean to wake you. I just really didn't feel like being  
alone, and I thought you were asleep, so you wouldn't mind if I came in here to read.  
You don't, do you? Mind, I mean? 'Cause... if you do, I can go back to my room. I  
don't want to put you out, you know... in your condition. Cordy says I should  
probably be careful, because you're not eating, and any minute you're bound to eat  
me, but..." She shrugged. "I'm not really afraid of you. But I thought you might be  
hungry, so I made you something. I don't know if it'll be any good, but... it can't  
be worse than tree bark enchiladas, right? Ha ha."  
  
I blinked at her, stunned by her babbling. Fred was so new to my reality that I had  
pretty much forgotten her, and it seemed strange to see her sitting on my couch.  
There was something enthralling about her chirpy ramblings, though, that drew my  
murky consciousness slowly upward.  
  
"What's that?" I asked, nodding toward the cake.  
  
Her smile widened as she set her book down and stood next to the table, gesturing  
over it like a proud saleswoman at a bake sale.  
  
"It's cake!" she declared. "As it turns out, blood works almost as good as pudding in  
the mix. Of course, it took a while to get it right. I had to experiment a little.  
Like, sheep's blood is better than pig, because it's thicker, and I had to double the  
egg whites, because the first two didn't rise. And I haven't actually tasted it, so  
it might be really gross, but Cordy said you liked chocolate, so I thought what the  
heck? The least I could do was give it a try, right? You don't feel like eating, so  
it's like that spoonful of sugar thing, you know? And I used to really love to  
cook -- cookies, pies, cakes -- and I want to relearn all that stuff I used to do,  
so... two birds with one stone and all that!"  
  
I continued to stare at her as she chattered, then finally glanced down at her  
offering once more. "You baked... a chocolate blood cake," I recapped incredulously.  
  
Fred nodded. She looked so earnest and pleased with herself, I felt bad that I  
couldn't be more enthusiastic.  
  
"Okay," I shrugged, "I'll try it."  
  
"Yay!" She chirped, and with an excited little hop, disappeared into the kitchen,  
returning with a plate, fork, and knife.  
  
We sat down at the table, and she cut me a slice of the unusual cake. I ate it more  
out of curiosity and respect for her gesture than any genuine desire to assuage my  
hunger...  
  
But much to my surprise, it was actually good.  
  
"I put in extra cocoa, too. Wesley says vampire taste buds can't really pick up  
non-blood stuff very well, and... well, what's the point of eating chocolate cake if  
you can't taste the chocolate?"  
  
I *could* taste the chocolate. And the extra cocoa overwhelmed the blood, so at the  
same time some of my energy returned from the badly needed nourishment, my spirits  
were lifted, however infinitesimally, by the simple sensation of eating chocolate  
cake.  
  
I ate that piece and devoured three more as we sat there in companionable silence.  
When I finished, I felt more wide-awake and aware than I had in weeks.  
  
"Thank you," I told her. And I meant it to cover far more than just the cake.  
  
"You're welcome. I'm glad you liked it," she replied with another one of her charming  
smiles. "So, are you... feeling better? Everybody's been really worried about you. Do  
you feel like talking? Or... maybe we can play chess. Or watch TV or something."  
  
I looked down at the sticky crumbs on my plate as her words reminded me of why I was  
in this emotional state to begin with. My mind was immediately flooded with thoughts  
of Buffy... how we'd eaten chocolate and peanut butter in bed That Day, laughing and  
reveling in one another's presence. She had listed a hundred chocolate things she  
planned to feed me -- including cake. I laughed and told her if she wasn't careful,  
I'd weigh 600 pounds in no time. I remembered her leaning toward me with a soft,  
adoring smile as she said, "You could be as big as Balthazar, and I would still love  
you."  
  
I closed my eyes as the pain hit. Buffy would never again eat chocolate cake. She  
would never again smile and look into my eyes. And any tiny remnant that might have  
remained of the dream of a future together was now as dead and buried as she.  
  
"I'm sorry," I muttered, getting up and stumbling into the bedroom. As I slid back  
under the covers, I felt the tears rushing in once more. The agonizing, gaping maw of  
loss again closed around my heart.  
  
How could I ever go on, now? How could the world not wither and die without her  
strength, her love, her light? How could even the simplest action, like bothering to  
rise from my own empty bed each day, ever be worth the effort?  
  
I felt a small, warm hand gently rubbing circles on my back, offering me comfort, but  
the gesture only served to break me further. It was the wrong small hand, the wrong  
touch, the wrong sweet, feminine scent. There had been a time, not so long ago--and  
yet, another lifetime--when Buffy's tender caress had healed me... brought me back  
from of a century of living death... mended wounds inflicted in Hell... cared for me  
when I was dying, and now...  
  
I would never feel her again. She would never ease the pain of my soul, never give me  
just that tiny ray of sunlight to warm the cold inside of me. I would bleed and bleed  
forever, and there would be no one who could stop the pain.  
  
Buffy was dead. Nothing and no one could ever bring her back to me.  
  
"Oh god!" I wailed, "Oh god, Buffy!"  
  
Fred didn't hesitate. She gathered me up in her lap as I broke down and sobbed,  
rocking me the way I had Dawn a few weeks before. I wept forever it seemed, until  
once again, I couldn't even draw enough breath to cry anymore. But Fred continued to  
hold me quietly until I spoke again.  
  
"I loved her... with everything I am," I heard myself murmur. "I can't believe she's  
really gone. I don't know how to go on without her."  
  
"I know," she whispered, then said, tears clear in her voice, "My sister died when I  
was nine. I cried like... forever, I think. All the time. I felt like somebody  
vacuumed out my insides. They wouldn't let me go to her funeral, so... I kept waiting  
for her to come back. I wouldn't listen to anybody who said she couldn't. My dad kept  
saying they should take me to the doctor, you know, because it wasn't natural for me  
to keep thinking she was just gone away for a little while. But my mom said no, I had  
to deal with it in my own way. I used to sit on the front porch swing all day and all  
night, and just wait and wait for her to come home until they had to carry me inside  
for bed. Then one day, my mom finally brought me to her grave. I screamed. But after  
that, it got better. Even though it was still really hard."  
  
I nodded slowly. "It is hard. None of it seems real. We didn't... see each other much  
anyway, so... I keep thinking if I pick up the phone and call her, she'll answer."  
  
"Yeah. I know what you mean."  
  
I finally pulled away from her and braced my back against the headboard, taking long,  
soothing breaths to pull myself together. Fred scooted up next to me and we sat  
quietly for a while, each lost in remembrances of the loved ones who'd gone.  
  
Or at least, I know I was. I was awash in little details of Buffy... the way she  
smelled... the soft warmth of her skin... her smile... even the way she fought. So  
many tiny things about this one amazing woman, who had so completely and fiercely  
captured my heart, I just couldn't comprehend the possibility that she simply...  
wasn't anymore.  
  
"What was Buffy like?" Fred finally asked, "Everybody talks about her like she was  
the best thing ever."  
  
I felt a sad smile sneak across my lips. "She was. Buffy was incredible... smart and  
funny... warm and giving. And she had this... spirit." I shook my head. "It's hard to  
put into words, but she was the most remarkable person I've ever met."  
  
"How did you? Meet her, I mean?"  
  
I closed my eyes and remembered... a cool Sunnydale night, when a tiny slip of a girl  
knocked me flat on my back in the alley behind The Bronze. How the pure shock of it  
had made me laugh for the first time in a hundred years, and something inside me had  
just known -- if I wasn't dust at the end of her stake in the next five seconds, my  
life would never be the same.  
  
"It's kind of a long story," I chuckled sadly.  
  
Fred gave me another one of her bright smiles. "I'm not exactly going anywhere."  
  
So, I told her. I opened that vault of memory that I had been fighting to keep closed  
for so long. And once I began telling the tale, I couldn't seem to stop. Buffy filled  
me as I spoke... I could feel her flowing like blood in my veins. I shared all those  
tiny bits of life that she and I shared... both the beautiful and the heartbreaking,  
and as I did, I realized that the old cliche was true:  
  
Buffy might no longer walk with me on this plane, but she would always go on in my  
heart. Still quipping mightily, laughing heartily, larger than life. I was still the  
recipient of all the beautiful gifts she gave me, and as long as I, and all the other  
people who loved her went on, she would never truly die.  
  
***  
  
TBC...  
  
WAHHHHH!  
  
@Ducks@  
THE ANTI-JOSS!  
Ducks@angelmailbox.com  
~~~~  
Gateway to Ducks: http://www.alwaysangel.com  
.Insert Standard 'This is My Opinion and My Opinion Only' Disclaimer Here  
  
"After some bootyesque confusion about the wedding night, Groosy explains that, after  
they boink, Groosy will become the lucky bearer of Cordy's visions. Cordy  
inexplicably complains, "You can't take my visions! I need them -- they are the lame  
pretext by which we get the episodes started!" Or something like that. " - Strega,  
MBTV Review of "No Place Like..."  
  
"Fred walks over to twitchy Angel and almost strokes his head before realizing that  
her hand is still covered in blood, and who knows how that will interact with his  
hair gel." - Strega, MBTV review of "Through the Looking Glass"  
  
"I love you. Nothing can change that. Not even death." - Angel to Buffy, "The  
Zeppo"  



	5. Stages of Grief, Part 5

TITLE: Stage V: Acceptance and Renewal  
SERIES: "Stages of Grief" (5/5)  
AUTHOR: Ducks, Staunch Defender of Krevlornswath's Cow  
EMAIL: Ducks@angelmailbox.com (DAMN THE WB!!!! *growl*)  
DISCLAIMER: Yeah. Like I'd give my *SELF* a hysterical nervous breakdown if they were  
mine. Pfft. They belong to people who don't really give much of a hoot about them.  
Their handlers and owners care not that the fans need to grieve with their beloved  
characters. *I* do. Unfortunately, I have to put them back in their lonely,  
disconnected universe when I'm done, and nobody gives me a red cent for caring about  
the way their histories are inexorably tied together. *sniff* To make a long story  
less long (We miss you, Lindsey!), not mine, don't sue.  
PAIRING: B/A  
TIMELINE: Post Season 5/2 Finales  
SPOILERS: Consider the entire canon fair game, especially BtVS5/AtS2, and  
ESPECIALLY-especially "The Gift" and "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb"  
SYNOPSIS: Following Angel and some friends through Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.  
The obligatory Buffy Death Fic.  
DISTRIBUTION: Send naked Angels and big, supportive hugs, and it's yours.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The reported end of crossovers leaves Angel's grief as possibly the  
biggest plothole in television history. Not to mention the central mythology of both  
series and characters that is the B/A relationship -- without that foundation stone,  
as far as I'm concerned, much of the magick is simply gone. Poo on JossCo. *pout*  
  
This story was inspired by my own experiences in response to the season finales. And  
yes, I know how twisted grieving for fictional characters is. ;) This is definitely  
not my best work... but I had to write it. Angel made me. He says all this happy,  
grinny, jokey stuff the writers are dishing out is crap. *g* No, I swear, he did!  
FEEDBACK: Desperately needed. Ease my pain. *sigh*  
RATING: PG-13  
CONTENT: MAJOR angst. References to character death. Did I mention the angst?  
DEDICATION: To my Devoted Minion Dru, for demanding that I "FIX IT!". To V, for  
feeling my pain. To Anja, who begged for gratuitous over-corpse wailing. And to my  
beloved Slashers, some of whom have come down with a sudden B/A bug. ;)  
  
Sorry about the Celine Dion song, V. *g*  
  
Translation note: Angel whispers (roughly): "I love you, breath of my soul. Always."  
(The 'always' translates literally to "it will always be like this".)  
  
"Stages of Grief" 5/5  
**Stage V: Acceptance**  
"This is when the anger, sadness and mourning have tapered off. The person simply  
accepts the reality of the loss, and begins to move on. Although the survivors will  
probably never forget the one who is gone, the realization sets in that they have to  
say farewell, and return to the living." - From the "Arnot Ogden Medical Center's  
Guide to Dealing With Grief"  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
And so life went on... such as it was. I finally allowed myself to go on with it. The  
days that followed were difficult. There were still so many times when I had to stop  
what I was doing, and let a pang of pain pass. Or when I would suddenly smile or cry  
for no reason, overwhelmed by some memory or another of Buffy that stole upon me.  
  
But I let them happen. I indulged those moments. The fact was, my heart was broken,  
and only time and patience with myself would allow it to heal. So long as I wasn't  
distracted in battle, or absent when my friends or a client needed my attention,  
there was no real harm in allowing myself to mourn. After all, as much as I might  
have genuinely believed to the contrary, grieving for my love wouldn't kill me.  
  
Two months had passed since she died. Eight of the most difficult, arduous weeks in  
my entire existence. Then one night, I heard myself laughing at one of Gunn's  
tasteless jokes. The foreign sound of it took me--and everyone else--by surprise. In  
that second, I realized -- it was the first time I had laughed since I saw Willow  
sitting on the couch in the Hyperion's lobby on that warm May night when the bottom  
fell out of my universe.  
  
I was finally moving on.  
  
I excused myself from the meeting. No one asked where I was going, or if I was okay.  
Maybe they already knew. Maybe they understood what my laughter meant even better  
than I did, because I swear I caught them exchanging relieved smiles as I grabbed my  
coat and ran out the door.  
  
It was time.  
  
***  
  
The drive to Sunnydale seemed to take only moments, those miles between LA and the  
Hellmouth quickly devoured by my focus on all the many things I wanted to say.  
  
The walk to her grave felt different this time, too. Those memories felt less like a  
haunting, and more like a bittersweet blessing, urging me on.  
  
The site was perfectly kept... not a single wilted flower or weed anywhere. Someone  
was watching over her. Maybe Dawn or Willow... Giles or Xander... maybe even Spike.  
More likely, all of them. Whoever it was, it gave me some small measure of relief to  
know that someone who loved her as much as I did was spending a lot of time there.  
She wasn't alone.  
  
I set the bouquet of jasmine I'd picked from my garden amongst the others -- roses  
and lilies, daises and other wildflowers -- not a petal of which looked more than a  
day old, and I took a long, quiet moment to really look at the headstone for the  
first time.  
  
"She saved the world. A lot."  
  
There was so much that those words couldn't tell someone who never knew her. So much  
about true heart... courage and sacrifice... about a beautiful, giving soul who loved  
life. But then, how could this slab of marble possibly portray anything about the  
complex woman it memorialized?  
  
We were the true testament of who Buffy was: myself, her sister, her friends... all  
the people who she touched and changed forever by her brief presence in this world.  
Everything around us owed its continued existence to her a dozen times over... every  
tree, every bird, every small night sound in the air around me. Those were the things  
that told her story.  
  
I finally sat down on the soft grass. A few feet under me lay her body. Soft skin,  
golden hair, strong, lithe muscles... all now breaking down into the fundamental  
magick stuff that made up the universe. If I concentrated, I could feel that physical  
presence, the disturbance in the soil where she lay. It was usually such a loathsome  
skill, to be able to feel the dead... but right then, it made me feel better. It told  
me that she was here... somewhere... everywhere, and that she could feel and hear me,  
too.  
  
"There's so much I never got to tell you, Buffy. So many things I wanted to share  
with you... to show you. I thought I'd come and maybe... I don't know."  
  
I looked up at the crystal clear night sky... how it sparkled with a billion stars...  
and I imagined her smiling down on me from her place among them.  
  
"I guess the point's kind of moot, now. Wherever you are, you probably already know  
all the answers to everything. But... I still need to say it."  
  
I stared at her headstone again and pondered where to begin. 'How about the  
beginning?' I could almost hear her whisper.  
  
"For a hundred years I wandered... lost... empty. No... not empty. I was full. Full  
of pain and regret and guilt... there was nothing but cold and darkness inside of me,  
as much as outside. But the first time I saw your smile... everything changed, just  
like that. It was like... the Powers gave me back the sun."  
  
"You were so young... so innocent, and still... you taught me more about life...  
about living... than anything else in my entire existence. You taught me about  
courage... about laughter... love. You taught me what it meant to really be *strong*.  
To be *alive*."  
  
I had to stop for a moment before I went on. These were things I had so long buried  
in the deepest recesses of my heart, and I found as they resurfaced, that they  
carried with them even heavier, sharper emotions that I had long forgotten. Here I  
was, laying my heart out on the grave of the only woman I had ever loved... and the  
simple fact was... it hurt. More deeply than an eon in Hell... more completely than  
walking away from her...more acutely than her tears when I told her that the Oracles  
were taking away our single, perfect day together...  
  
God, did it hurt. But I plunged on.  
  
"You know that I would give anything to bring you back. Even just for a moment.  
Just... to thank you for everything you gave me. And... for honoring me with your  
love. You changed my life, Buffy. You helped me want to be someone. I don't think  
that... even if we got to have a lifetime together, that I could ever find enough  
ways to show you what you truly mean to me... how much a part of me you are. Every  
step I take in this world... every soul I help... every battle I fight, every single  
act of goodness I perform... it's all because of you."  
  
She was my Reason. She was the meaning that made every arduous step of my journey  
worth taking. And now... now I would have to do it all in her memory.  
  
"I let you think, once, that I didn't want to be with you. I hope you know that  
wasn't true. That was never true. I would trade everything I have to be with you  
right now. And forever. But... I know that where you are, you're finally at peace.  
And I guess... that's enough. You deserve that rest. I love you, Buffy. I'll always  
love you, with all of my heart. And I'll never forget a single moment we shared. If I  
live until the end of time, I'll never, ever forget you."  
  
I reached into my pocket and drew out my final gift for her... the twin of the ring  
that I gave her all those years ago, before our dreams dissolved into nightmares, and  
the future crumbled out from beneath us.  
  
I traced the worn lines of heart, crown and hands... love... loyalty... friendship.  
In the end, we had them all. She would always have my heart. I would always be loyal  
to her memory. And I would always, always consider her my friend.  
  
"Is duine a ghra thusa, anail le mo anam. Beidh se amhlaidh go deo," I whispered,  
setting the ring into the grass at the base of her headstone, and with one final  
glance, rose and walked away.  
  
Again... without saying goodbye. I had never been able to really say it to her when  
she was alive, and I certainly couldn't now.  
  
Because I knew, deep in the very center of my being, that Doyle was right.  
Somehow... someday...we would be together again.  
  
***  
  
I slept long and hard that sunrise, and Buffy came to me in my dreams.  
  
It was nothing new to have her there. There had been many times when her presence in  
my sleep was the only thing that helped me hold on. Although other times, I admit,  
those nights were almost the final straw that broke the camel's back, because the  
feeling of missing her was so powerful.  
  
But I remember clearly that this time was different. The sensations were so vivid...  
the scent of her skin... the sweet taste of her lips... the raging, devouring inferno  
of our passion as we made love.  
  
My reward, I imagined, for letting her go. Beautiful, brilliant sensations to carry  
me through my lonely eternity.  
  
"Angel..." she whispered... and she softly kissed along the edge of my ear, sending a  
tremor down my spine. I could feel wakefulness threatening... that lightening of the  
shadows of sleep that told me soon this dream would be over, and I would once again  
be desolate. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and refused to rise.  
  
Just a little while longer... please...  
  
"It's time to wake up, my love..."  
  
No. Not now. Later. Later, I can get up and face forever alone. But right then I  
wanted to relish the feeling of her living heat against me... wanted to keep holding  
her, just like that. Just another day... another hour... another minute, and then I  
would let go.  
  
Her kisses wandered softly... from my mouth, around my jaw, down my throat. I sighed,  
consumed half by this passion, half by the sorrow of knowing...  
  
Would I really never feel this again?  
  
"Buffy..." I whispered, tangling my fingers in her hair as she continued kissing  
downward, tracing each inch of my burning skin with tender care.  
  
Even her memory set me on fire. Perfect, flawless, endless bliss as she finally rose  
above me, and took me deep inside of her, and we rode crest after crest of impossible  
dreams together.  
  
When it was done... when the last of me was spent deep in the center of my love, the  
echo of her final cry still hanging in the air, I opened my eyes.  
  
To find Buffy smiling down at me. "Don't tell me you really slept through that."  
  
You may have heard that vampires have unbelievable speed and reflexes. Well, at that  
moment, I proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. I stared at her for a split second,  
before I realized that I was awake when she said,  
  
"'Morning, sleepyhead," and pressed a tiny kiss to the tip of my nose.  
  
In the next breath, I was up, out of the bed, standing naked in the corner of my  
bedroom with my sword in hand.  
  
Staring at Buffy, equally naked and now very, very confused, kneeling among my  
rumpled sheets.  
  
There's very little in the cosmos that I'm afraid of -- no doubt a side effect of a  
few hundred years in Hell. Cordelia's coffee scares me. Chickens scare me. The idea  
that all of my mortal friends might someday die and leave me alone makes me want to  
fall apart.  
  
But I had never experienced the kind of pure terror that I did in that moment.  
  
Buffy's confused look changed to amusement, and she cocked a wry eyebrow at me.  
  
"Not that the whole naked barbarian with a sword thing isn't really, *really* hot,  
but... what are you doing?"  
  
Rage quickly leaked into my shock and fear. Whatever this thing was, how did it  
*dare* take this form? I brandished my sword menacingly at the apparition, and  
snarled, "Who are you? What do you want?"  
  
Its expression shifted once again, now back to confusion, with no small dash of fear.  
  
"What? Angel... this isn't funny," it complained, slowly rising from the bed.  
  
I started shaking. So hard that I could barely keep the sword in my grasp as it came  
closer.  
  
"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" I screamed at it.  
  
The Buffy-thing started as if I'd struck it, and gave me a dark frown. "What's the  
matter with you?"  
  
I couldn't back any further away from this... monstrosity wearing my dead lover's  
face. And I couldn't collect enough of my sense to attack it... or, really, do  
anything but stand there, panting and trembling.  
  
It kept coming toward me, one small hand outstretched as though I were a dangerous  
animal.  
  
"It's okay, honey... it's me. Buffy," it insisted.  
  
My brain suddenly kicked in, a cacophony of confusion and disbelief echoing in my  
skull. It couldn't be her, and yet... it looked like her. Every detail... every inch  
of her skin... every small movement of her body. It smelled like her... like us... a  
musk of love and sex, vanilla and honeysuckle. It sounded like her... those were her  
eyes. It was Buffy.  
  
"No," I muttered, shaking my head. "No, it can't be. It can't be you."  
  
She was barely a foot away, now, her posture tense, ready for anything. If this was  
some creature sent to take me out, it was going to succeed, because I was utterly  
unable to move.  
  
"Angel, it *is* me. Please... tell me what's going on."  
  
I lost it... choked on all the conflicting emotions and instincts fighting for  
supremacy inside of me. Desire to grab her and never let her go... to cleave the head  
from this thing that dared the sacrilege of taking on her form. I wanted to run. To  
scream.  
  
Apparently, I chose the latter, because Buffy jumped clear back to the bed, and a few  
moments later, the suite door burst in to admit a very frightened Cordelia and  
Wesley.  
  
I spun to stare at them, still holding the sword.  
  
"OH! Naked! Too much naked!" Cordy cried, covering her eyes.  
  
Wesley was unruffled by my nudity. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, after all.  
"Angel, what happened? We heard you screaming." Then he noticed Buffy, and instantly  
turned a deep, bright crimson as he averted his eyes. "Oh, dear lord. I'm sorry. We  
thought... we didn't mean... Oh, my."  
  
Buffy kept her eyes on me as she slipped into my robe. "It's okay, Wesley."  
  
"Angel, what are you DOING?" Cordy yelped from behind her hands. "What is going on in  
here?"  
  
I couldn't stop gaping at the Buffy-thing. "You two see her?" I asked the others,  
gesturing at it with my sword.  
  
"Well, yeah!" Cordy snorted. "We've sort of had to see her constantly for the past  
month! Well... except for all the days you've been locked up in here. Then we only  
had to *hear* her. Which, believe me, is just as bad."  
  
"Something's really wrong with him," the Buffy-monster told them. "He woke up, took  
one look at me, and totally freaked."  
  
Wesley moved toward me, taking the same cautious approach that Buffy had. "Angel? Do  
you know who I am?"  
  
I shot him a withering look. "Of course I know who you are."  
  
"But you don't know who Buffy is?"  
  
"I know who that *looks* like," I corrected him, "But it's not. It can't be." All of  
the adrenaline seemed to leave me in a rush, and I finally let the point of the sword  
drop to the floor as I forced myself to look away from the Buffy phantom. My voice  
was barely a broken whisper. "It can't be her, Wesley. It can't. She's..."  
  
My friend finally reached me, and took the sword gently from my hands. "All right.  
It's all right. Why don't you get dressed, and we'll figure out what's happened to  
you."  
  
I glanced up again at Buffy. Her expression was wounded, her eyes filled with tears  
of hurt and concern.  
  
Could it be? Had the Powers, by some miracle, brought her back to me?  
  
"B...Buffy?" I asked, not daring to hope. My mind kept telling me... this was  
impossible. She was gone. I had said farewell to her just the night before, at her  
grave. "You... you're... dead."  
  
Her eyes went wide. "What? No. Really. I'm not," she insisted, gesturing down over  
her body, now sheathed in my black robe. "I swear. Look. Alive and well."  
  
I still couldn't move from my spot against the wall, all of my energy spent keeping  
myself upright while my brain scrambled for some explanation for how this could be  
happening.  
  
Was I dreaming now? I pinched myself... she was still there. Had I finally died too,  
and Heaven (or maybe a different Hell) turned out to be nothing more than my everyday  
life, but with Buffy in it? Was I poisoned? Under a spell? Hallucinating?  
  
"What the Hell is going on?" I finally wondered aloud. "How..." I shook my head. "How  
is this possible? I don't understand."  
  
Everyone seemed to relax a little when it became apparent that I wasn't going to kill  
them all. Buffy walked around the bed and approached me once more, and this time,  
though I watched her warily, I let her touch me. She gently took my hand, and...  
  
It was real. There was that spark that always caught between us, every time we  
touched. That tiny current of living electricity that was our bond. It rushed through  
me, snapping my long-dulled nerves to screaming life. There was nothing else in the  
cosmos... no magick or being in creation... that could effect me the way that she  
did.  
  
"It... it's you," I gasped. "It's really you."  
  
She nodded, giving me a teary-eyed smile, and I could see it there in her eyes...  
that glow that they always carried when she looked at me.  
  
"It's me, baby. I swear," she assured me softly, and led me back to sit down on the  
bed before looking over at Cordy and Wesley, who still hovered in the doorway.  
"Guys... could you..."  
  
Cordelia gave a worried scowl, but Wesley nodded and herded her from the room, my  
sword still firmly in his hand.  
  
Then Buffy sat down beside me. I could feel the heat of her skin... hear her  
heartbeat as though it were my own. She looked deeply into my eyes.  
  
"It's okay, Angel. I'm here. Everything's all right, I promise."  
  
I don't know how long I sat there, trembling, gaping at her... experiencing a  
sensation I thought lost forever: the simple blessing of her presence.  
  
She was there. She was alive. She wasn't buried in the cold, hard ground back in  
Sunnydale. She wasn't gone forever.  
  
My Buffy was right next to me... exactly where she belonged. Exactly as I had wished.  
  
"Oh god!" I cried, and before I knew what I was doing, I pulled her into my arms,  
crushing her against me, smothering her with desperate, grateful kisses. "You're  
alive! Thank God! Oh, Buffy! I love you!"  
  
I broke down yet again. It seemed for the millionth time, I was overcome with emotion  
as I held her... kissed her, pressed my ear against her breast to hear the strong  
thumping of her heart. And I vowed--to her, to myself, and to the Powers That  
Be--that I would never, ever leave her side again.  
  
***  
  
Afterthoughts: Buffy  
  
It was really scary to see Angel lose it like that. I mean... not in an "I lost my  
soul, psychotic nutjob mass murderer" kind of way, but in an "alternating between  
sobbing senselessly and laughing like a manic depressive on acid" sort of way.  
  
I was way creeped, to say the least. But... I'll admit, at the same time, I loved all  
the incredibly beautiful and heartbreaking things he said to me as he cried.  
Especially the way, when he finally came to his senses again, that he looked deep  
into my eyes and promised that he would never, ever leave me again.  
  
I could tell that he meant it. And I don't think I need to say how that made me  
feel.  
  
After a while--a *lot* of kisses and reassurances that no, I really wasn't dead--we  
managed to get dressed and join the others. We all sat down and talked, and Angel  
refused to stop touching me for even a moment. It was so weird... me, Cordy, Wes and  
Fred had to rehash the past couple of weeks as if he hadn't been right there with us.  
The whole blind luck thing that I fell through the portal after fighting with Glory,  
and landed right on the roof of that boat Angel insists is a car. How I was really  
beat up, so they had to take me back to the castle for medical attention. (Honestly,  
I was *really* surprised that he forgot that part, considering how worried he was  
when it was happening.) How we spent a couple of days together while I mended. How  
his friend Lorne told us he could see that we had a common destiny, and this other  
green guy -- Numfar, I think his name was -- did this weird dance as he told Angel  
that there was nothing wrong with his soul. It was whole, intact, and completely  
un-losable. I still laugh, remembering that part. Lorne said it was The Dance of Joy  
.  
  
Due to the mixed company, I skipped the part about how me and Angel screwed like  
bunny rabbits for two days straight after finding out about his soul. Then we came  
home. We told him about the big "Yay, Buffy isn't Dead!/Yay, the World Didn't  
End!/Yay, Xander's getting married!" party Willow and Tara threw, and how I had been  
here practically every day since.  
  
Angel just sat there looking lost through the whole thing. When we were done, he told  
Wesley he thought the two of them should get together with Giles and discuss what he  
remembered. But he wouldn't tell me what that was. Even after we made love later, he  
flat out refused to say a word, insisting that it didn't matter.  
  
Everything was different, somehow, after that night. Not that being with Angel hadn't  
been one incredible, amazing, mind-blowing moment after another all along, but...  
that night, he was so gentle... so loving, a couple of times I found myself crying  
right along with him. It was like being reunited all over again... times a thousand.  
  
Funny... even all these years later, he still won't talk about it. I don't know why,  
I mean, it's not like we have any other secrets. He eventually told me all about The  
Day That Wasn't (which, considering he had already Shanshued at that point, wasn't  
all that important). He even shared some of his memories of Hell. And let's face it,  
when a guy has stood between your legs during three really long, painful labor  
sessions (the first of which left him with a black eye and three broken fingers)  
there's really *not* a whole lot of mystery left in your relationship. But he won't  
tell me why he thought I was dead, or what freaked him out so badly that afternoon.  
  
Wesley and Giles know. But when I ask, Wesley just smiles and says he promised Angel  
he wouldn't tell, and Giles gives me this sort of mushy look and then grabs me in a  
completely un-Gilesy hug, and says it's not important. The Host is the only one  
who'll really give me any kind of answer. He told me one day that the power of love  
was nothing to scoff at. It could bring people back from Hell... or from the dead.  
  
As usual, I have no idea what he's talking about, but... whatever. I guess it really  
isn't important. I'm not dead, and whatever it was that happened made Angel swear he  
would never leave my side as long as he lived. It makes him stop sometimes and look  
at me like I'm the most amazing, miraculous thing he's ever seen. So I figure, hey...  
it's all good, right?  
  
The End. *relieved sigh*  
  
@Ducks@  
THE ANTI-JOSS!  
Ducks@angelmailbox.com  
~~~~  
Gateway to Ducks: http://www.alwaysangel.com  
.Insert Standard 'This is My Opinion and My Opinion Only' Disclaimer Here  
  
"After some bootyesque confusion about the wedding night, Groosy explains that, after  
they boink, Groosy will become the lucky bearer of Cordy's visions. Cordy  
inexplicably complains, "You can't take my visions! I need them -- they are the lame  
pretext by which we get the episodes started!" Or something like that. " - Strega,  
MBTV Review of "No Place Like..."  
  
"Fred walks over to twitchy Angel and almost strokes his head before realizing that  
her hand is still covered in blood, and who knows how that will interact with his  
hair gel." - Strega, MBTV review of "Through the Looking Glass"  
  
"I love you. Nothing can change that. Not even death." - Angel to Buffy, "The  
Zeppo"  



End file.
